Angels don't die
by AOB
Summary: "Sherlock lifted the girl and her weight was like a breeze in his arms. He saw John looking at her long, straight, amazing hair swinging gently in the bitter night air. It was like an angel had fallen from the sky, deep down into the shady back streets of their vast London city." Is Sherlock Holmes able to love? If so, what kind of woman is needed? Read and find out!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: My story has been edited by thedragonaunt. She has done absolutely great job and I'll always be grateful to her. Thank you! I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any other characters from BBC Sherlock. **

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**Part one**

**The Night in His Eyes**

Chapter 1

Sherlock crouched in dark shadows of the high brick wall. His long coat swung slowly in the nigh breeze and his curly hair hung wildly over his frosty blue eyes, now shining with excitement. John stood right beside him, his back pushed against the wall, steely Sig Sauer in his hands and an attentive, slightly cautious expression on his face.

Next to Sherlock, to his left, was a corner of another shaded alley, which crossed the one they were standing and disappeared into the darkness. Silvery clouds wandered along the winter night sky, scattered with twinkling stars and the moon, pale and cold and distant.

The sound of running footsteps broke the silence of the alley, approaching from the far left, around the corner. Sherlock and John glanced at each other, mild surprise in their eyes.

"I thought they were gone," John whispered and stared into the darkness with narrowed eyes.

"Keep it ready," Sherlock whispered back and nodded briefly to the gun.

The steps grew louder - light, quick steps like a child running along the street. Then there was a sudden flash of a black, hooded coat, almost like a cloak. It threw itself around the corner, made a quick roll, came to its feet and fired explosively along the alley, towards something John and Sherlock couldn't see. A man's groan blended into the fading echo of the shot. Then the coat dashed through the alley and disappeared behind the other corner.

"Bloody hell, that was quick!" John grunted, his ears ringing.

"Whoever it was must be on our side."

Sherlock bounded onwards and raced after the black coat.

They rushed down the alley, dark and wet and stinking. There were more loud gunshots and more groans and skreams. Somewhere to their left, they could hear men yelling at each other but their words dispersed between the high walls and ramshackle buildings. As they reached another corner, Sherlock suddenly stopped and John ran into his back. He lost his footing and almost dropped his gun.

"Shit..."

"John, on the roof!"

John tilted his head and saw the dark shadow of a man standing on the rooftop of the old warehouse, against the sky and the moon. The man was holding a rifle. The barrell was pointed down to the alley but the man was not yet aiming. John raised his Sig Sauer ready to fire at any moment, if needed.

Sherlock quickly appraised the scene. There were five people at the end of the alley, where the brick wall made a dead end. Four men, tall and strong and dangerous-looking were running after the person in the black, hooded coat. Whoever was wearing the coat was small, but acrobatic and incredible quick. Sherlock watched in amazement as the coat ran against and along the wall, took three quick steps upwards, made a back flip in the air and rocketed down and into one of the men, the force throwing him violently onto the street. Once on the ground the coat balanced itself and, in a flash, a leg darted from the black folds and kicked another man in the temple. With a quiet sigh, the man crashed to the tarmac.

Sherlock frowned and tried to figure out if he should have any part in the odd fight but, before he really had time to think, he was running towards them.

Another well-placed kick shot out from the folds of the coat and the tallest man roared when his knee shattered. But his long arm had already been on its way and he managed to destabilize the black coat with a haphazard hit, throwing the coat off balance, just enough that the last man managed to wrap his hands around the wearer. Despite the broken knee, the tall man moved forward and threw a savage punch right under the hood. There was a sickening crunching sound and the black coat crumpled, bent double.

A second later, Sherlock tackled the tall man. They smashed to the ground in a mess of fists, legs, curly hair and a lot of swearing. Another second and the grabbing man was suddenly tugged from the ground and thrown over the black shape to the street, just next to Sherlock. The dark detective had already fiercely punched the tall man on the face, breaking his nose and knocking him out; and in one smooth move Sherlock threw a sharp rock straight into the back of the last man's head. The man jerked violently and fell onto his face, where he lay still.

Then a double-gunshot tore the night apart. Sherlock heard the whiz of a bullet, as it passed by his head and hit through the black-coated shape behind him. The coat made a slow turn and fell to the ground.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and John swooped out of the shadows.

"Are you okay? Hell, I couldn't shoot him in cold blood and... Holy shit!"

Both men stared at the black coat in amazement. The hood had finally dropped down and, under the hood, there was a graceful, girlish face, now covered in blood, two befuddled blue eyes and a mess of long, golden hair.

She scrambled to her feet, leaned heavily against the brick wall and aimed a gun toward Sherlock and John. Her left arm hung useless at her side. She gritted her teeth and gasped. Her gun hand was shaking, but her grip was firm.

"Who are you?" she whispered in a hoarse voice. "What do you want?"

"Calm down," Sherlock said, slowly raising his arms. "We are on your side."

She narrowed her eyes and studied his face for a moment. Sherlock could see quick thinking behind her blue eyes.

"Why would I believe you?" she asked. Her face had turned extremely pale and the scarlet blood glistened against it, like the shards of a ruby. Her back slid slowly down against the wall, as her legs gave in. She tried to push herself up but couldn't. She swore quietly and bent her knees to almost sitting position, there on the wet alley.

"Well, I just tackled down your assailants and he," Sherlock glanced at John, "he shot one of them."

She slowly put the gun down on her lap and nodded. Her head drooped and she took a deep, shivering breath. John glanced at Sherlock and the tall man nodded shortly. John handed his gun to Sherlock and squatted down in front of the girl, or woman. He really couldn't say. She looked young but she had that tired look in her eyes, like she had already lived through several lifetimes. John felt a sudden twist in his heart.

"Hello, my name is John."

She looked up and said nothing.

"You have been wounded. We need to get you to the hospital."

Her eyes widened in panic.

"No!"

"Listen, you -"

"No! I'm not going to the hospital!"

"Look, the bullet -"

One sudden movement hardly possible to perceive, and there was that gun again in her hand, pointing directly at John Watson's brain.

"Hospitals. Never. Again."

John frowned at the gun. He stared into her eyes for a moment.

"Okay. Hear me. I'm a doctor. If you'll let me to have a look..."

She hesitated for a moment and laid the gun down again. She turned her face away when John moved the black coat, carefully. Under the coat there was an expensive-looking shoulder holster and a black shirt, wet from all the blood pouring from her arm. John unbuttoned a few buttons from the shirt so that he could see the wound.

"No broken bones, I suppose."

Her voice was small and emotionless. John glanced at her, curiously.

"How would you know?" he asked.

"Feels like it," she said. "The bullet just passed the muscle, don't you think?"

"Yes, you're most likely right," John said, studying the wound with narrowed eyes. The light in the alley was poor, just some glimmers from the streetlights and the distant moon. But considering the location of the wound, she had made a correct diagnosis.

The entrance wound was small and clear. The bullet had passed through the deltoid muscle, about half an inch deep and, as the distance between the entrance and the exit wound was so short, the exit wound was not that bad, only slightly larger but somewhat ragged. She had been very lucky. Well, considering...

The bleeding was quite bad, though, and the wounds needed careful cleaning and stiches; time would take care of the rest. John knew he could do it all by himself, at Baker Street, where he kept some basic equipment to hand.

He looked at Sherlock with a silent question in his eyes. Sherlock stared at the girl for a moment and nodded.

"I can clean and stitch the wounds, if you like," John said, mildly.

She turned her head and looked into John's dark-blue eyes, so kind and full of sympathy. Her dizzy eyes shone. She dropped her head down and whispered something John couldn't hear but he assumed it to be a submission of some kind.

"I'll make a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding," he said, soothingly. "It'll hurt, but bleeding will eventually take you to the hospital, so I assume you prefer this."

She nodded briefly. She had begun to tremble and her gaze was unfocused.

John frowned and thought quickly. Then he pulled off his shoes and socks.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded.

"I need your scarf."

John put the shoes back on and rolled up his socks tightly. He had changed them just few hours back, so they were quite clean and would do the job. Sherlock stared at John for a moment and, slowly, took off his scarf and handed it to him. John moved the girl's gory sleeve to get a clean piece of cloth to cover the wound. Then he placed his rolled socks onto the wounds and pressed. She inhaled sharply and gritted her teeth.

"Hold these," John said to Sherlock.

The tall detective kneeled down and placed his black leather gloved hands onto the socks. John took the scarf and wrapped it, firmly, over the socks and around the shoulder, several times. She was breathing quickly and lightly, as if she knew that to be the best way to control the pain.

Once the bandaging was complete, the girl's head drooped again and her eyes closed. She was nearly unconscious. Then a quiet whisper, hardly audible, ran drowsily from her lips and shaped a small brook of words:

_Now more than ever seems it rich to die,  
To cease upon the midnight with no pain..._

"What did she say?" John asked, puzzled.

Sherlock furrowed and something glinted in his eyes.

"Keats..."

"What?"

"_John Keats_. From _Ode to a Nightingale_.

"Is she... reciting poetry?"

Sherlock glanced at John, an inscrutable look on his face. He stroked his lips, lightly, with his glove and for a moment his gaze was distant, as if some old memory had passed across that continuous observation behind his eyes.

"I'll carry her," he said suddenly.

He leaned forward and eased his long arms under the fragile shape. He lifted the girl and her weight was like a breeze in his arms. He stared at John. He saw him looking at her long, straight, amazing hair, swinging gently in the bitter night air.

It was like an angel had fallen from the sky, deep down into the shady back streets of their vast city of London. The angel with a gun, which she refused to give up, though her mind had already wandered away.

"I think we found our killer," Sherlock said quietly as the sound of police sirens wailed in the distance.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Back in the flat, at Baker Street, Sherlock laid the girl down on the sofa. She seemed to be still unconscious. Sherlock's scarf was now covered in blood and the girl's left arm, under the coat, was dyed crimson. John wondered if she had already lost too much blood and that she really should be taken to the hospital. He was sure, however, that the bullet hadn't cut through any vital vein. So there was still hope.

John left the girl for Sherlock to look after and hurried to his bedroom.

"Put the kettle on will you?" he cried. "I'll need some water!"

Sherlock walked into the kitchen. His mind was fast going through the data. Who was the girl and why did she fight against the Redhead Gang? Was she a bounty hunter? Was there any bounty hunters these days? It could be possible, though, as some private individuals had offered a £10000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the Red Captain, the ruthless leader of the gang.

Sherlock looked back on the case he had been working, lately. Lestrade had called him three days ago. There had been a grievous battle in the streets of Camden Town. Three men had been killed, two had been taken to the hospital and, apparently, more was hiding somewhere, licking their wounds. All those men belonged to the Redheads.

Unsurprisingly, Lestrade hadn't got much out of the men in the hospital but Sherlock had been able to deduce that the killer had been alone, that he was quite small, extremely quick and acrobatic and a crack shot. The three dead men had all been shot in the head but the two in the hospital had been shot in the thigh. Sherlock was sure it was on purpose. It told him that the killer didn't kill if he didn't have to. Yes, Sherlock had said 'he', but obviously, he had been wrong. The killer wasn't a man but a woman and she was lying right there, on the sofa, in their flat.

Sherlock walked back to the living room. He studied the girl carefully. The black, hooded coat was warm and of a good quality - not by any means cheap - but her jeans and shirt were mundane, even worn-out. She had black army-style boots, those familiar to paratroopers. Sherlock assessed their size, visually. Obviously the size 5, like that of the killer. The girl also had a professional shoulder holster. And she was small, quick and acrobatic and she could shoot amazingly well.

But who was she? A soldier? Many things referred to an army background but then there was that unbelievable, angelic hair. Would you have a hair like that if you were a soldier? Sherlock wondered, vaguely, how many years it took to grow hair so long. He had a sudden fancy to measure the length of a single hair. It would be a yard, at least. He ignored the idea, feeling a little embarrassed.

He stepped closer and, gently, took her right hand, from whence they had removed the gun. It felt cold, like a piece of ice. The palm was quite broad for a girl, fingers were long and nails short. She didn't have any rings or jewels of any kind or any make-up, as Sherlock now noticed. So not too concerned with womanly things then, or was this done for practicality? Maybe the latter. Or both.

She had a hard and muscled side of the hand and gristled knuckles, which indicated that she had had a long and hard training in some sort of martial art, probably Taekwon-do, considering the unbelievable kicks she had presented earlier. Around her wrist, there was some chaffing, as if she had been handcuffed, not freshly but some time ago.

Could it be, that... well, the Redhead Gang was somehow connected to human trafficking, of that Sherlock was sure. But... no, there was something wrong with that picture...

Sherlock thought about the fact, that the killer had been able to run off from the Camden Town battle, even if most of the men there had definitely had a gun, too. And still, they hadn't found any empty cartridges, expect those from the killer's gun. It seemed likely that the gangsters had been instructed not to shoot her. But today she had been shot. Why? Was it because the bullet was not meant for her, after all, but for Sherlock? If not, then it seemed likely that she probably did it all in self defence - that she wasn't after them but they were after her. But... two battles during one week? Why didn't she leave the town if they were after him? Why stay nearby? What was it that they wanted from her so badly? Sherlock absently fondled the inner surface of her hand with his thumb. It was rough and had calluses. Probably working with weights?

He heard John coming down the stairs.

"Are you holding her hand?" he asked in surprise. "That's very nice of you!"

"I'm not holding it, I'm _observing_ it!" Sherlock snapped, letting the hand drop down and hurrying back to the kitchen. He poured the boiling water into the bowl, took it to the main room and laid it on the coffee table.

"You don't need to be ashamed of holding somebody's hand, Sherlock," John said casually.

"I wasn't holding it!"

John smiled. Sherlock snorted and watched in silence as John took a hypo and filled it with liquid morphine. He injected morphine directly into her vein. She groaned a little but didn't wake up.

"That'll do. It begins to work quickly, within 5-10 minutes. Now, get me some clean towels, would you."

Sherlock's phone rang. He pulled it out from his pocket and turned around to get the towels.

"Lestrade?"

John bent over the girl to see what injuries she had on her face. Some blood had dripped from her nose but it wasn't broken. John could also see a deep slit on her left cheek, over the bone. Her eyelid was fast turning purple. She had probably suffered a light concussion after that savage punch. John heard the noise of the punch in his head again and shuddered with anger. How could anyone do anything like this? He decided to glue the cheek instead of stitching.

Sherlock came back with a pile of towels and laid them on the coffee table.

"So no fatalities this time?" he said to the phone.

John huffed in relief and started to carefully remove the girl's coat and the shoulder holster. So, he hadn't kill the man on the roof. That was good. Although, he deserved what he got, nearly shooting Sherlock and actually hitting the girl who was now bleeding under his hands. John heard Lestrade's low voice mumbling on the phone.

"All shots to the thigh, yes, sounds familiar. What? The one on the rooftop was shot to the shoulder? Oh, okay. But he'll survive, too. It makes five for the hospital, then. No, I don't need to come there, I already know all I have to know. Yes, yes, I'll call you tomorrow."

Sherlock ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He eyed John.

"Some day I'll get in big troubles with all this shooting", John said quietly.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Not as long as you keep Lestrade in dark about your gun."

John had managed to get the girl's coat and the shoulder holster off, but her shirt was too tight to remove easily.

"Scissors, please."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked. John had turned Doctor Watson now and he had no choice but to obey. He did it willingly, however, as he found it fascinating to observe John performing medical operations. He passed the scissors and John cut off the left sleeve and some of the upper part of the shirt.

"So, are you going to tell Lestrade about her?" John asked. He took a towel, dunked it in the bowl of cooling water and twisted it.

"Not yet..." Sherlock said slowly. "I need more information."

John started to wipe blood off her arm. His moves were gentle and smooth. Then there was a sudden stop and a quick breath.

"Jesus Christ..."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked and stepped closer.

"Look at her arm... It's... full of scars!"

"Cutter?"

"You mean self-harming? No, I don't think so. At least not all of these. There are some old burns and something like... bite marks?"

"She is a fighter of some kind," Sherlock said quietly. "I suppose one would get wounded in those situations." He had a certain tone in his voice and John glanced at him. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and John snorted.

"Don't start again! And besides, I'm not -"

The girl groaned suddenly and opened her eyes. She stared wildly around and tried to sit up. John pushed her gently but firmly back and made a hush noise.

"Don't worry. You're safe now. I'm a doctor. I'll help you."

She turned her eyes to him and the fear vanished as she recognized the man in front of him. She smiled tiredly and lay down again. Sherlock wondered how many times John had repeated those words back there, in Afganistan, and after that, here in London. What he had just said sounded more like a magic spell than just a list of commonplace words. It was because of that special intonation he used. The art of calming, Sherlock thought proudly.

After John had finished cleaning the area around it, he began to stitch the entrance wound. The girl winced and turned her face away. She stared at Sherlock with cloudy eyes. She studied him from top to toe, his curly, ebony hair and slim body, his elegant, restless fingers and long legs, even his black leather shoes. She didn't seem to know, or to care, that too much staring is considered rude behavior.

Sherlock felt a bit uneasy. As if he had been x-rayed.

Then, finally, she raised her gaze and, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt another human being really looking _into_ his eyes, not just there on the surface. Her blue stare drilled straight into his head and mind, as she walked right into the captivating night in his eyes without a moments hesitation. She quivered. Her pale lips parted slightly as she lost herself into that enigmatic, unpredictable, dangerous night. It wasn't a dark night, but awake and cold and silent, like a lonely wolf guarding in the mountains under the bright, full moon. Not howling, but staying still and observing the quiet wilderness beneath.

In return she let him come through, too and Sherlock felt like he had suddenly stepped into a dark, heavy dusk, full of amorphous shadows, to a place with solid ground but stumbling footsteps and a lot of silence, desolation and pain, yet something golden and miraculous, dawning from nowhere. Then she blinked and the unique moment was gone. She closed her eyes tiredly and turned her face back to John.

Sherlock shook his shoulders and sensed, vaguely, that something priceless had just slipped from his hands. He pondered what she had seen inside him and what she might think about it. Yet he wasn't sure if he really wanted to know.

Meantime, John had completed his job, but he still had the other wound to deal with. He asked if she could turn onto her side. She looked startled and her eyes narrowed. She gritted her teeth and seemed to think something unpleasant. Finally she turned slowly onto her right side.

"Good, that's - better..."

John cut his words, just for an instant, but Sherlock noticed it and so did she. She stiffened and bit her lower lip. There was a strange look on her face, something Sherlock couldn't define. Was it sorrow or defiance or shame? Sherlock looked at her but she refused to meet his eyes. Her face turned stony.

John continued his work, in silence that steadily filled up the room, like water rising in a pool. Finally, John was ready. He glanced at Sherlock and broke the suffocating silence.

"There's a small first aid kit in my drawer. Could you bring it down? I forgot the clips."

Sherlock nodded and headed upstairs and John began to bandage. When Sherlock came down again, John was already finishing his job. Sherlock glanced at his skilful hands and nearly dropped the first aid kit. The girl's upper back was striped with long welts and deep scars, some of them old and white, some still red and healing. Sherlock had seen that kind of welts and wounds before. Actually he had _made_ such. With his riding crop. He passed the first aid kit to John and their eyes locked for a moment. Sherlock saw a hopeless anger and pity in John's dark eyes and he felt a sudden tightening in his chest. He didn't like to see John suffer. And seeing a girl, or anybody, treated like that was a complete misery for John.

Sherlock wandered to the window and stared down at the quiet street. There was something extraordinary about this girl. Something that provoked many questions and yet answers so few.

He heard John asking:

"What's your name, by the way?"

There was a moment of hesitation and then a quiet answer:

"You can call me Angel."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The log-fire flickered cosily and threw restless shadows across the floor. Angel was half-lying on the sofa and Sherlock and John were sitting in their armchairs. John had forced Angel to drink several glasses of water, to repair her fluid balance. Now they all had a warm cup of tea in their hands.

Sherlock glanced at John and saw a silent warning in his eyes. John knew Sherlock had questions to ask, a lot of questions, and he didn't want his patient to go through that. Not just yet.

Sherlock sighed and took a sip. Was there anything more hateful than waiting? The impatience bubbled under his skin, causing his fingers to tap the armrest, restlessly. He considered what would be the best way to get the answers from the girl. Somehow, he felt that threatening or blackmailing wouldn't work, although he _did_ have a perfect opportunity to blackmail her, with those three killings... He shot a quick side glance at the girl. Angel's face was still pale and her eyes cloudy. She looked disturbed and uneasy. Clearly, she wasn't accustomed to such circumstances. Something was bothering her, something other than just the pain. She set her cup on the coffee table and pushed herself into a sitting position a slight grimace appearing on her face.

"Hey, what are you doing?" John snapped to his feet and hurried over to her.

"I need to go," she said shortly.

"What!? You can't possibly go anywhere! You have to lie down and rest yourself!"

"Thanks for everything, Doctor Watson. But I really need to go now."

John glanced at Sherlock, in puzzlement. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. What could he say? It wasn't his business to make the girl stay, if she didn't want to. Surely John would understand that. But of course, if she _did_ go, there was nobody to answer the questions...

Angel laid her army-style boots on the floor. John raised his hand as if to stop her. He opened his mouth but not a word came out. Something in Angel's eyes stopped him. He slowly put his hand down again and shut his mouth. They stared at each other.

"At least let me give you some painkillers," John sighed. "And I really would like to have a look at that wound later on. Tomorrow perhaps? Would you? Please?"

John was almost begging. He felt terribly. He couldn't force her to stay, could he? He didn't have any right to do so. But still, letting her vanish into the night, alone and battered...

"We are going to hunt him down and make him pay." Sherlock's voice was calm and almost indifferent. "Are you sure you don't want to participate?"

Angel turned to Sherlock. Her eyes narrowed and her dark eyebrows furrowed. She stared at him for a moment but didn't respond. She was thinking, considering, as if trying to figure out how much that tall, exceptional man knew about everything.

"Are you referring to the assailants?" she asked, tentatively.

"No."

"Good. Because they are nothing, after all. Just puny puppets in a play."

"I know."

Angel studied Sherlock with her blue gaze. There was a certain hunger in those demanding, frosty eyes of his, a hunger for information. The need for details, particulars, data, something that Angel could give to him, if she decided to. A thin smirk sneaked onto her lips and her voice softened.

"If I wanted to participate, what would I do?"

"You'd stay and tell me everything you know about him."

"The Red Cap?"

Sherlock nodded, briefly. Angel made up her mind.

"I'll tell you everything you need to know, if..."

"If?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and impatience hardened his features. Angel smiled.

"If you'll teach me how to play violin."

The air seemed to crystallize. Sherlock blinked. He glanced at his violin in the dark corner of the room.

"The... the violin," he stammered.

Instantly, he wanted to kick himself. He had always hated the way people parrot each other's sayings. He saw, from the corner of his eye, that John was smiling. He blushed slightly.

"How did you know?" he snapped.

"I didn't know, I saw," she said carelessly.

Sherlock almost repeated her words again. He compressed his lips and bit back the words, just in time. The question 'How?' was burning on his lips. He hoped John would ask that, as he always asked those stupid, self-evident things. But he was only smiling widely. Sherlock furrowed. For God's sake, there was no way he would ask it himself, not before Hell would froze over! Although he really, really wanted to know...

"Your fingers," Angel said, "long and sensitive. But your fingertips were hard when you touched my hand earlier. I wasn't _that_ unconcious all the time. And besides, you've got violin rosin on your left sleeve."

Sherlock raised his arm and glanced at his sleeve in amazement. Bloody hell the girl was right! He put his hand down and swallowed.

"How much do you know about him?" His voice wasn't as steady as he wished it were, but at least he wasn't stammering anymore.

"Everything."

"Everything?"

Sherlock cursed in himself. What was wrong with him anyway! He should stop that stupid whining immediately, and concentrate!

Angel stared at him. Her eyes weren't cloudy anymore. They were bright and sharp and merciless.

"Yes, everything. His comings and goings, his hideouts, his men and women, his likes and dislikes. I know about human trafficking and money laundering. I know what he prefers to eat and drink and smoke and how many hours he sleeps per night. What do you want to know and will you teach me or not?"

During Angel's tirade Sherlock managed to pull himself together. He stared at the girl, that certain glow in his eyes. If she were telling the truth, she was a gold mine. No, not gold in her case. Diamonds. Those very rare black ones.

He weighed those two facts in his mind, balanced one against the other. Teaching the girl about the violin would obviously be frustrating. Her hands were used to hold a gun, to breaking bricks and to punching noses, not to holding the fragile bow. But the knowledge she had was priceless. Yet, he could still resort to blackmail...

"How much do you want to learn?" he heard himself asking.

"Everything."

There was a loud outburst, as Sherlock jumped to his feet. He threw his hands in the air.

"That'll take a lifetime! Forget it! I'll find that information all by myself!"

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock turned sharply to John, who was still smiling.

"What?!"

"She is joking."

Sherlock glanced at her and saw a mischievous smile on her face.

"Really, Mr. Holmes, don't make a fool of yourself. I know well enough my limits. I just want to know how it works, the violin, to get to know the basics. I can take care of the rest _all by myself_." She highlighted the last three words with twinkling eyes.

Sherlock snorted, but soon a genuine smile spread across his face.

"It's a deal then?" she asked and stood up slowly.

"It's a deal," Sherlock nodded.

"You won't be able to start before the wounds are healed," John worried.

"Unfortunately so," she sighed. "And how long would you expect that to be, Doctor?"

"Hard to say. A month?"

"Well, there's not much we can do about it, is there?"

John shook his head.

"Okay, I'll be back in the morning, say... nine o'clock?"

"What, are you still leaving?" John cried.

"Sure, Doctor Watson. I feel a bit... tired. And as you kindly pointed out, I need to rest. I don't want to spoil the whole night by talking about _him_."

"You can sleep on that sofa. It's only few hours to go!" John tried.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I owe you too much already."

"What? No, please, don't think like that. I'm a doctor. I would do the same for everyone!"

"I'm sure you would," she said and smiled gently. "Now, could I have my gun, please?"

John stared at her for a moment and shook his head again. He picked up the gun from the table and placed it in the shoulder holster. Then he, carefully, helped her to put it on.

"Your coat is all wet with blood," he said quietly.

"Well, nothing new under the sun," she said lightly and wrapped the black coat around herself, leaving the left sleeve empty. Her face was still very pale and she was shaking slightly. Her steps were not quite steady as she made her way to the door.

"Good night, gentlemen," she said and nodded. "See you in the morning."

Both men stared at her.

"Good night, Angel," John sighed.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't have to. In his case _the night_ was not in his words but in his luminous eyes, from this particular night, to all eternity. And in her mind, _his_ night would always be good.

After Angel was gone there was a short silence, disturbed only by the log-fire, crackling. John walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of red wine.

"Want any?" he asked and looked questioningly at Sherlock, who shook his head. John returned to the sitting room and sat heavily in his armchair.

"Well... that was... an odd case, so to speak," he sighed. "Poor girl..."

Sherlock remained silent, looking at the restless fire and drumming his fingers on the armrest.

"God... her voice when she - " John stopped and took a sip of wine. "I can't think... I don't dare to think all that - "

"Then don't."

"What?"

"If you don't dare to think about all she's been through and about all that's been done to her, then don't," Sherlock said and gave him a sharp look before turning his eyes back to the fire.

"Yes... Yes, maybe you're right..."

"Of course I'm right."

"Okay... then, tell me, why you didn't just blackmail her? You know she killed those three men. You could have get all the information just by threatening that."

"I doubt it."

"Why?"

"Does she look like a girl who pays attention to threatening?"

"No, but I don't think she is willing to go to the court, either. And probably to prison, afterwards. Goddammit Sherlock, she has killed three men! I don't like the idea, either, but you should tell to the police. You can't just keep it quiet."

"Why not?"

"Because... Because it's not right..."

"You think it's more right that I blow the whistle, even if I don't know why she killed them? That I send her to the prison without knowing if she really belongs there? You saw her body. Do you think she did that all by herself? And besides, you've killed a man, too, and the police know nothing about that either."

John stared at him for a long time.

"Is that caring?" he asked finally. "Do you feel sorry for her, after all? Is that why you don't go to the police, or that you don't blackmail her? Does she interest you, Sherlock?"

"Don't be absurd!"

"You promised to teach her the violin, for heavens' sake! How many times have you taught the violin before? Not a single one, as far as I know. You don't even allow anyone to_ touch_ your violin. So what is this?"

"Nothing that you should be so awfully interested in. It's just that I want to get a clear picture of this matter before I do anything with the police, that's all. If she knows what she says she knows, I'm willing to give her few violin lessons in exchange."

John shrugged.

"Right... okay... let's keep it quiet, then, for now."

They both looked at the fire for a while, until John seemed to remember something. He lifted his eyes and eyed at Sherlock again.

"At least you're going to tell me about that poem."

"What about it?" Sherlock asked, suspiciously.

"How did you recognise it?"

"Really, John, it's one of the best known poems in the world!"

"Yes. As is the fact that the Earth goes around the Sun."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that one day you learned that poem, thoroughly, for some reason - "

"Secondary school necessities," Sherlock grumbled.

" - and, for some reason, you didn't delete it from your hard drive. Why do you keep poems in your hard drive, Sherlock?" John asked steadily.

"They might be important, sometime," Sherlock said with an evasive tone.

"Like when?"

"Like when you try to keep up with all the Ofelias in this world, who pretend to drown themselves in numberless rivers. Or when you try to figure out if the suicide note was really a suicide note and not a deranged message from a murderer, who wants to set up Romeo and Juliette all over again."

"You actually _had_ cases like that?" John asked, amazed.

"A few."

"Okay, then... fine. But you don't remember all the Shakespeare's plays by heart, actually, do you?" A slight uncertainty crept into John's voice, as if he had began to wonder if that were possibly true, after all.

Sherlock glanced at him, suddenly amused.

"You really think I could do it," he said, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"That's very flattering, John, since Shakespeare's complete works consist of 884,647 words."

John stared at him.

"_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players._ From _As You Like It_, Act 2, scene 7, line 145."

The glass in John's hand quivered.

"_The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers._ From Dick the butcher's speech in _Henry VI, _Act 4, scene 2, line 77."

John swallowed.

"You... you're kidding, right?"

Sherlock smiled mysteriously. For a moment, he thought he would do it. Actually make John believe that he remembered it all. But then, he didn't.

"Just few of my favourites," he said.

John gave a deep sight.

"Thank you," he said.

"What for?"

"For giving me a change. I don't think I could have stuck with you anymore if I knew you can keep, what, over 800,000 words in order in your head. That would have been too... inhuman. Even for you."

"884,647," Sherlock corrected.

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I'm going to bed now. Good night, my friend The Laptop."

"I'm not a laptop! That was insulting!"

"Why? I thought you'd like it."

"Like it? A laptop is usually considered as a small object that you can carry in your hands and place upon your knees!"

"Well, that _is_ an amusing mental image," John smiled.

"Piss off."

"You are my best friend, too."

Still smiling John stood up, placed the glass on the table and went upstairs. Sherlock waited until he was sure that John was in bed. Then he quietly stood up and went to the bookshelf. He let his long fingers glide over smooth back of the books until he found what he was looking for.

_The Oxford Anthology of Great English Poetry._

He went back to his chair and sat down. He opened the book and flipped through the pages. And there it was, _Ode to a Nightingale_.

He knew the poem inside out but, somehow, he wanted to see those lines written, to read them as he had done, so long ago. And, while flowing through the perfect words and beautifully formed sentences, he felt satisfaction. For once, somebody used English language properly, without tedious mistakes and rough contortions. Treated the words as they were meant to be treated. With creative perfection.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Next morning, at nine sharp, she was standing in their flat doorway. They had heard nothing. No ringing doorbell, no clicking sound of the lock nor creaking steps. She just stood there, her long hair neatly braided (which Sherlock instatly noticed and about which he felt vaguely unsatisfied), her black coat, now cleaned of blood, wrapped around her like a cloak, with her left arm in the sling, a black eye and pale, almost gray, face.

"Forgot the painkillers," she said and grinned, tiredly.

"Jesus..." John murmured and jumped to his feet. "I remembered when I had already gone to bed. I was worried to death!"

She smiled, briefly.

"No need. But I wouldn't object some now."

"Don't you dare!" John huffed and hurried away.

They looked at each other, the dark detective and the blond girl. Somehow they needed no words. Greeting was unnecessary, a ridiculous thought, even - like you'd say 'hello' to your mirror image.

"Brought back your scarf. Thanks for lending."

She took a blue bundle from inside her coat and threw it to Sherlock. He caught it on the fly. It was an exact copy of the one ruined, last night

"Where did you get this?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"From the shop?"

"It's not open until 9.30 a.m."

"Yeah, but it _is_ there anyhow."

They gave each other a slow, quirky smile. Sherlock felt something warm spilling into his chest.

John came back, a hypo in his hand. He glanced at both and frowned at their smiles.

"I've missed something, haven't I?"

"Yes, Doctor Watson, you've missed me," Angel said and blew him a kiss.

John gave a laugh.

"Yes, you stubborn person, I really have. And now, stop running around like a headless chicken and lie down, or I'll nail you to the sofa with this bloody syringe!"

She laughed and let her coat slide to the floor. She headed for the sofa and sat down. John rolled her right sleeve up, cleaned the skin and injected the hypo, carefully, into the vein.

"There," John said, satisfied, and took few steps back. "Now, we'll change the bandage, right? And from now on you'll take one pill of Oxycontin every twelve hours, for as many days as needed."

"Very well, Doctor Watson," she said happily.

"Please, call me John."

Her smile vanished and she glanced at him contemplatively. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but didn't. She closed her mouth and pursed her lips.

"It's dangerous to use given names," she said at last.

"What? Why?"

She didn't answer. She frowned and stared, bemused, at the floor. Sherlock and John glanced at each other. After a while, Angel lifted her eyes and smiled.

"Dangerous, _John_. Really, really dangerous."

Then there was a sudden move, incredible quick, and something hit John on his forehead and dropped down. John grunted and stared at the floor. There was a pair of socks laying there. He squated and picked them in his hand. He frowned and then suddenly understood.

"No..."

"Sorry if the colour isn't correct, er, _John_. I must say, your socks were in a bit of a mess yesterday and I couldn't figure it out. So I ended up with black. Quite obvious, in fact. I hope you don't mind."

"I..." John didn't know what to say. He stared at the socks and wasn't sure if he felt like laughing or crying. He didn't do either, but smiled. Wide, quirky smile it was, and he didn't wonder anymore if he had missed something.

To John's mild surprise Angel accepted an invitation to join them for breakfast. She took a cup of tea and an apple. Sherlock was eating his single piece of toast, slowly.

"Are you seriously calling that a breakfast, Angel?" John said desperately.

"To break the fasting period, isn't that the point?" she asked innocently and raised her eyebrow.

Sherlock grinned lopsidedly.

"Oh God... don't tell me there are now two of you to shepherd..." John sighed.

Angel and Sherlock glanced at each other, Angel over the top of her tea cup, from which she had just taken a sip, and Sherlock holding his toast, from which he had just taken a bite. They turned their heads toward John, like two pullstring toys, then slowly back at each other, a mild surprise in their eyes. They blinked, simultaneously. And that was it.

Angel made a funny noice, burst out sniggering and spat the tea all over the table. Sherlock stiffened for an eyeblink. Then, like he just couldn't help it, a low chuckle escaped from his lips. He had still some toast in his mouth and, of course, it went down the wrong way and he started to cough, violently, which made Angel to laugh with abandon.

John stared at them, with a somewhat hopeless expression on his face. Then he bursted out to laughing, too. And when Angel heard John's weird giggling she almost fell off her chair. She desperately balanced herself with her hands, completely forgetting the wounds. She gasped, as she laughed, at the pain which shot through her shoulder.

John rushed to her, trying to hold back his giggling but only half succeeding. Angel shook her head, her eyes full of tears. She held her injured hand, trying to control the pain and the laugh which still bubbled inside her. She wiped her eyes with her right hand and sniffled, a wide smile on her pale face.

"Dear God..." John gasped and took few deep breaths. "I'm going to put you two in different rooms if there's any more stupidity done here. Really, I mean it."

"It wasn't my fault!" Sherlock cried, defensively, his voice hoarse from coughing.

John looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

"If you say 'She started it', I'm going to take you to the nursery."

Sherlock snorted but an amused smile was rippling on his full lips.

ooOoo

They spent the entire morning talking about The Redheads. In the very beginning Sherlock stated, calmly, that he knew that she had killed three men, five days ago. Angel looked a bit surprised but didn't deny it.

"I had to," was all she said.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

Angel didn't respond. Instead, she looked at Sherlock for a very long time, narrowing her blue eyes.

"You haven't told the police," she said thoughtfully, mostly to herself. "Because you want to know all those things about the Red Cap. You wouldn't know if I was gone. But once I have told you everything..." She suddenly turned her head to John.

"Is he as good as his words?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" John said, puzzled.

"Does he keep his promises?"

John coughed. He couldn't answer that question right away. He had to think about it for a while.

"I... It depens... really..." he stammered. "He is a blatant liar if he gains a benefit from it -"

"I didn't ask if he lies but if he keeps his promises," Angel said impatiently.

"Oh... yeah...," John huffed. "If he promises he isn't going to do anything stupid I wouldn't believe him, but if he promises he'll catch the murderer, he will. Now that I think about it, he doesn't make too much promises at all."

"Okay, but do you _trust_ him?"

Now, the question put that way, John didn't hesitate.

"Always," he said firmly.

Angel thought about that for a while.

"You know what," she said finally, "I trust him too."

A gleam of surprise and joy twinkled in Sherlock's eyes but was gone before Angel turned her gaze back to him and started to speak.

And she really did know everything. It didn't take long from either of the men to realize that, somehow, she was part of all that. They both wondered if the connection was that of the most obvious, considering that she was a young, beautiful woman, but neither of them put the thought into words. They didn't want to push her. She would tell, evidently, just what they had to know. And what they didn't have to know, well, it was her business.

"So he _is_ one of the ringleaders of the human trafficking, as you supposed, Sherlock," John said at last.

"Well, that much was obvious. The amount of the victims only amazes me. How in earth does he hide all those girls from the police and, well, from _me_?"

"Most of them stay in refugee reception centres," Angel said.

John made an incredulous noise.

"Some of them are private institutions, John," Sherlock reminded. "Guess they are paid with drugs?"

He looked at Angel who nodded.

"Yes, that's the easiest way. No moneychanging. No selling and buying. The good old barter."

There was something in her voice that made the air in the room heavy and suffocating. She gave a deep sight.

"Well, what's the point of hiding it. You know it already, don't you? I spent most of my youth in those reception centres. BDSM mostly, in my case, as I found it interesting to train martial arts and stuff like that in my so-called _spare time_."

She lowered her eyes to examine her right hand. She clenched her fist, opened it and clenched it again. She raised her gaze. Her eyes were almost black and her lips had turned pale. She breathed heavily. The anger made her voice thick and raspy.

"Suppose it's fascinating to beat up someone who _could_ fight back if she wasn't handcuffed to the bed."

An awkward silence settled over the room. She didn't notice it, however, as she had lost herself in agonized thought. John's eyes were gleaming. Sherlock glanced at him and suddenly there was a weird ache in his chest and throat, something hot and pressing. He swallowed but the ache was still there, making it hard to breath. He almost paniced, as he finally recognized the signs.

_Shedding of tears. _

It was so long time ago that he had almost forgotten. And dash it, he really wished to keep it that way! His jaw made a familiar move forward and he compressed his lips and cleared his throat.

"When did you escape?"

Angel turned to Sherlock but didn't really see him. Her gaze was very distant. It took a while to get back. She blinked a few times and took a deep breath. Her voice was almost steady when she said:

"Nearly two weeks back. It wasn't the first time though, but he always manages to hunt me down, in the end."

"Not this time."

Sherlock's voice was deep and dark. He looked at her intensely. Angel studied his eyes for a moment and nodded slowly. Somehow, she knew he was telling the truth. The night in his eyes had grown dangerous. It had grown to a night when prey turn predator and the revenge takes place. And like before, in _her_ mind his night would always be good. No matter what kind of it was.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Four nights had passed since Sherlock and John had rescued Angel from the dark alley. Every morning she appeared in their doorway, like a ghost, and every evening she disappeared into the streets, like a shadow. She had divulged a vast amount of information about the London underworld. Lestrade had brought to a close two old murder inquiries, with her assistance, and was over the moon. He called it 'the angel-revolution', when she came on the scene.

He and Sherlock were sitting in Lestrade's office. Sherlock had just told the DI that the killer, who was responsible for those three killings some time ago, had left the country and was now somewhere in South-America. Lestrade didn't even bother to ask how he had found it out. He just nodded and sighed.

"Right, okay, I'll make the arrangements... Hopefully all this shooting calms down now, that he is gone. As you know, the ballistic reports revealed that he was the one shooting in the other battle, too. I just don't get it... Why they didn't kill him, if he killed them? I mean, all that we got was one single cartridge from the rooftop, from the rifle-man! But we never found the bullet. And those wounded gansters, they keep it all quiet." Lestrade gave a deep sight and held his hands out, like he was giving up. Then he smiled a little. "You know, Sherlock, you've got to tell me something about her, some day" he said and propped his elbows on his desk.

"About who?" Sherlock asked, slightly annoyed.

"You know perfectly well who I'm talking about. Who is she?"

"A girl who has been tortured and forced into prostitution for years but who managed to escape some time ago, albeit wounded, and who wants to keep a low profile from now on and isn't to be asked too many questions," Sherlock rattled off, like the words had been in his head for a long time, just waiting for their time.

"You mean... is she _a_ _prostitute_!?"

"Was."

"Uh... okay... Right... She is, you know..."

"Yes?"

"She just doesn't look like one," Lestrade stated at last.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Appearances can be deceiving. You should know that by now."

Lestrade gave a laugh.

"True. How did you actually met her, anyway?"

"By accident. We were searching for the drug dealing spots in Camden Town when she nearly ran over us. She was wounded and we hid her and misled the chasers," Sherlock said with blank, almost bored, face.

"And she kind of pays back by revealing all that she knows about the gang?"

"Something like that."

Lestrade looked thoughtful for a moment.

"What day exactly did you say you were in Camden Town?"

"I didn't."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't say anything about the day," Sherlock said, sulkily.

Lestrade inhaled.

"Yes, I'm sorry. So what day you were there, in Camden Town?" he asked, patiently.

"Two days after you called me about that first battle." And it wasn't actually a lie, because Sherlock had been there that day, too.

Lestrade nodded slowly.

"Clearly the gang has something going on. Two hard fights during one week. Turf War?"

"Possible," Sherlock said shortly.

"Or does Angel has something to do with all this?"

"Of course she does, she is one of their victims."

"Yes, but I meant these battles."

"She took advantage of their mess, I think."

"Hm..." Lestrade looked at him for a while. Then he folded his arms and smiled gently. "An interesting girl that Angel, don't you think?" he said, his eyes glinting curiously.

Sherlock stared at him, his face completely still.

"Doesn't talk much about herself," he said finally and rose up to leave. He gave Lestrade a brief nod and was gone. Lestrade looked after him for a long time with a slight smile on his lips.

John kept quiet about the killings, too, now that he knew something about Angel's background. He told himself that Angel had done it in self-defence, which was probably the truth, although he couldn't be sure because Angel never talked about it. Maybe it was still too shocking memory. Killing a man wasn't so easy, after all. John wondered if he should talk about it with her, but then, he had more crucial things to worry about. Like keeping her alive, from now on. Angel, herself, didn't put too much effort into that. She didn't rest basically at all, ate poorly and spent her nights in the freezing streets. Sherlock had made inquieries amongst his Homeless Network and figured out that she moved from place to place and never spent two nights in a same spot. She refused to get any help, except painkillers and a cup of tea or an apple, every now and then. Once, John planted 50 quid in her pocket and nearly got a punch on his nose.

Sherlock didn't care. Or, at least, he pretended so. But John had seen him staring out of the window at night, picking restlessly at his violin, staring at her teacup, there, on the corner of the coffee table.

When they were in a same room, Angel and Sherlock, John felt like his flatmate had divided into two very dissimilar but alike forms. They had so much in common. They were both restless souls and hungered for action. They behaved as they pleased, paying no attention to what others might think, and yes, they were both annoyingly pedantic in some matters and unbelievable careless in others, like their own wellbeing. They were cheeky, childish, and sarcastic, in that strangely appealing way that made it almost impossible for John to get irritated with them. Almost.

Angel couldn't, of course, compete with Sherlock's intelligence and she didn't even try to. But she was sharp and had an eye for details. She greatly admired his brain and he appreciated her knowledge and even her opinions, which was really unique, as far as John could tell. Not to mention her fighting skills and persistence - that clearly impressed Sherlock, as he never liked whiners.

They mocked each other, of course, every now and then. It was pretty reckless to hear, as they were both quick-witted and stubborn and wanted to have the last word. Sherlock confused Angel with brilliant intelligence, rattling deductions and crushing conclusions, and Angel befuddled Sherlock with neverending reserves of cutting quotations, preposterous wordplay and beautiful fragments of poesy. The mockery didn't happen that often, though, and when it did, neither of them actually got mad or angry but, instead, seemed to enjoy themselves.

But the most interesting thing with those two, so far, was Angel's hair and the way Sherlock acted. It had become clear that she kept her hair always neatly braided. The reason why her hair had been undone that night, there in the alley, was just because she had lost her hair bobble during the breathless chase.

The braid clearly annoyed Sherlock. Well, not the braid itself, as it was really beautiful, but the fact that if the hair was braided, it wasn't free flowing. And he wanted it to be free flowing. John could tell it by the way Sherlock often looked at that bride, his dark brows drawn down over his eyes. Was Sherlock aware of that habit himself and did he even realize that her hair actually _meant_ something to him? John couldn't say. But he doubted it and was only waiting for the day Sherlock would figure it out.

Observing their peculiar interaction was, so far, extremely amusing to John, even though his own burden of worry had naturally been doubled. And at that very moment it all just spilled over.

"You can't come, Angel! On no account! Not in any way!" John exclaimed, furiously.

"And how, exactly, are you going to stop me, may I ask?"

Her face was angry and two red spots were shining on her cheeks.

"Bloody hell... You have a serious wound in your shoulder. W-O-U-N-D, Angel. Do you understand what that word means?"

"It means that I've got so fucking much to pay back!"

"No. It means that you have to lie down, bury your pretty face in a pillow and rest, for goodness sake!"

Angel lifted her small chin stubbornly. Her lips were pale and her fist clenched.

"You can't stop me," she said in a steady, low voice.

"I can handcuff you to the bed," John said angrily.

In an istant he noticed his mistake and cursed himself. Dark shadows whipped across Angel's face, turning it white and stony. Her voice was cold and emotionless.

"Go for it and I'll put a bullet in your brain."

John swallowed. He felt so, so sorry for his words and he wished, desperately, that he could take them back. But he couldn't and there was only one way to fix it. He sighed.

"Forgive me. I didn't mean it. You _know_ I didn't. Just... join the group."

She gave him a freezing gaze and threw the black coat around herself.

"Shall we?" she snapped.

Sherlock had observed their quarrel with great interest. For what he already knew about that girl he hadn't placed a bet on John. He smirked and headed for the stairs. Angel followed him, looking annoyed. John inhaled deeply, shook his head and followed.

It was an early evening. The weather was bitter but not freezing, because the sky was cloudy. A few snowflakes fluttered down from the darkening sky. Sherlock hailed a cap and they all got in. The colour had returned to Angel's face and she smirked, briefly, at John as the cap drove along, heading for the outskirts.

John gave back a tired smile.

"So, what's the plan?" he asked.

"Considering all that we know, this night is excellent for a surprise attack," Sherlock said and looked out of the window.

"Surprise attack? But there's only three of us! And Angel has... um... limitations..."

John's voice trailed off and he glanced at Angel. She snorted but her eyes were amused.

"We are not going to hunt down the whole gang, John," Sherlock said. "We aim straight at the bullseye. It's enough if we catch The Red Cap. The whole gang will fall to pieces and Lestrade can pick them up, one by one."

"He's right," Angel said. "Every saturday night The Red Cap pays a visit to Columba, his lover. There's only two man guarding outside the room and the place is isotated and quiet. Not many witnesses."

"For what, exactly?" John asked, suddenly alarmed.

"For the, er... surprise attack?"

"I'm not liking this," John muttered. "Why we have to do this all by ourselves? There's the whole Yard there, just waiting for some action!"

"John, since when did you start that whining, exactly?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Since then when I realised I'd been blessed with not just one lunatic but two," John huffed.

"Really, John, you're getting on my nerves," Sherlock said, irritated.

"_I_ am getting on _your_ nerves? Right. That's it. Stop the cab."

"What?"

"You heard me. Stop the cab."

"What are you on about?"

"I'm getting out. You two can go and get yourselves killed, I don't give a shit."

"What -"

"Good God! I've run five days almost around-the-clock bloody painkillers in my hands, trying to get my patient to rest and to heal. But instead of behaving reasonably you two instist on chasing around, poking your noses into every stinking bin and behaving like some bulletproof robots. You don't eat, you don't sleep, you bounce around the city in the middle of the night and now, now _I_ am getting on_ your bloody nerves_!"

There was a puzzled silence. Sherlock stared at John, with raised eyebrows, and a slightly guilty expression crept across his face. The cab rushed along, as if the driver hadn't heard or seen anything.

Angel moved forward and placed her hand, hesitantly, on John's knee.

"John, I'm sorry, forgive me... Please. I... I realise now what a jerk I've been. It's just... you know... I didn't understand how much you... cared. You see, no one ever cared about me before."

John looked at her. Her face was slightly flushed and her eyes were gleaming. She bite her lower lip and looked like a child that has just been scolded. Sherlock cleared his throat. John's heart melted. He knew he was easy prey but, after all, he didn't care much about it. He placed his hand on hers and squeezed.

"I do care about you, you stubborn girl. I hope you understand that. And, _because_ I care, I want you to rest and eat and sleep and heal. If that's not too much to ask." He looked into her eyes. Suddenly, they filled with tears, and she nodded.

"I... I'll do as you say, John. I promise. After this night. I swear."

"It's a deal then?" John said and frowned.

"It's a deal," she said and blinked her tears away. She smiled and it was like a small sun had lit up the dark cab.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: The poem in this chapter is part of Paul Simon's The Sound of Silence.**

* * *

Chapter 6

The trio got out of the cab and vanished into the shadows. The night had fallen and the outskirt were dark, only a few streetlights flickered in the foggy weather. The buildings were low and ramshackled, most of the windows black and broken and empty. Wizened leaves sneaked across the desolate alley.

_In restless dreams I walked alone  
Narrow streets of cobblestone,  
neath the halo of a street lamp,  
I turned my collar to the cold and damp..._

Angel's voice was nothing but a whisper when the words poured down from her lips and blended with the rustle of the leaves. Sherlock turned to his companions and gave a wicked grin.

"It's just around the corner, right?"

Angel nodded, a light shone in her eyes. She had the gun in her right hand. It was beautiful, black XDM. John was holding his Sig Sauer. His anger had long since gone and now there was only excitement in his eyes; the longing for the danger and, yes, the destruction. He knew that these two beside him were pushing him towards the black side of his soul but, somehow, he didn't care. There was only the night, and the danger, and the gun in his hands. And those welts on her back, and that scarlet, bleeding flesh and eyes so blue and lost. Suddenly he was wondering who would be the one to pull the trigger first.

Only the sneaking leaves disturb the silence. Then, Sherlock waved his hand and off they went - down the alley, around the corner, up the low steps to the door, old and ragged. Somewhere, high above, a lonely window was glowing reddish against the dark shape of the house, like the eye of a monster, half-asleep and silent.

Angel glanced at the window. Her heart was hammering. Sherlock fished a lockpick from his pocket. The tiny sound of rustle and click disipated into thin air. The door opened slightly and Sherlock stepped to the side -

_Ptaff-crack!_

_Ptaff-crack!_

Two shots from the silenced pistols hit through the door, on that very spot where Sherlock had just been standing. They heard the bullets whistle by.

"What the hell..."

They all threw themselves to the ground, almost at the same time.

The door flew open. Two men rushed to the doorway, their guns pointing forward, and then making a quick turn towards the three, spreadeagled on the ground. A double-shot exploded the narrow street. Two quick, burning flames turned the night into a day. Somebody was screaming his head off. And then the night was there, again, and an echo made their ears ring.

One man had slammed against the door and was now sliding, slowly, towards the steps, leaving a bloody trail behind. Half of his head had been blown away. The other man was down, crouching, wheezing, holding his throat with both hands, blood pouring between his fingers. He made few stifled, sickening coughs and fell onto his face.

Time stopped. It moved neither forward nor back it moved but stayed still, as they stared at each other, terror in their eyes.

They were all still in one piece. The wave of relief made their knees weak, but they scrambled to their feet, as the danger was still there and time was running fast again.

"How in earth did they know we were coming?" Angel whispered, wiping her face with her gun hand. Before she had even finished the question, Sherlock's mouth twisted in frustration.

"Of course, the taxi driver! Stupid, _stupid_..."

He shook his head, sharply, and grunted. But then, there was really no time for regret. They refused to meet each other's eyes, as they leaped over to the wall and moved, sideways, to the door. There was only silence there, in that dimly lit doorway, two corpses lying around and bleeding their past lives into the cold night. And that glowing, red-lit window, up there, staring into the darkness.

"You wait here," Sherlock said to Angel.

"What?"

Sherlock turned his face, now very pale and eyes glowing feverishly. He stared at her. His gaze was deep and dark and it drilled into her very soul.

"Stay and we'll bring him to you."

The night in his eyes was pitch black and freezin,g and the power of his will so crushing, that it forced Angel to nod even though she tried to resist.

Sherlock didn't wait for more approvals but vanished inside, John on his heels

She stood there, the gun in her hand, eyes befuddled and anger growing in her chest. She gritted her teeth and cursed. Her shoulder was burning because of the sudden crash she had made to the cobblestones. She was just about to follow the men inside when someone stormed out, a gun in his hand, scrambled over the bodies and leaped down the steps.

It was him. The Red Captain.

Angel would have recognized him anywhere, anytime. And suddenly all the physical pain was gone. The world turned over and she dived into the white-hot torment of her heart. She pushed off from the wall and, in a flash, she was flying towards him, both legs in the air in front of her. She crashed against his back. Her separated legs slid to either side of his hip. She twisted her legs, quickly, and the man fell to the ground, sideways, dropping his gun and hitting his head on the stones.

They both rolled over each other in a tangled mess. Angel's leg touched the ground and she made another roll and landed on her feet. She turned sharply to him and pointed her gun directly between his eyes.

Angel saw, from the corner of her eye, Sherlock and John rushing to the doorway and stopping. She didn't pay any attention. She was all focused on The Red Cap lying there on the ground, his eyes unfocused because of the blow to his head, slowly pushing himself in a sitting position. Until his eyes finally sharpened to the girl in front of him.

He smiled.

It was a disgusting, hateful smile and it burned Angel's heart out.

"You can't do it," he said calmly. "You never could."

She didn't respond. Her gunhand was shaking slightly. Her face was made of a pale stone but her gaze was that of a battered child, completely lost in her unspeakable mess of a soul.

"I should have killed you," he said lazily. "Beat every single breath of life out of you."

A tiny sob escaped from Angel's chest.

"That's what I did to you mother, you know. It was that fucking violin she was playing. It made me sick. And you know, I hate it to be sick."

Tears were glittering along Angel's lashes. A stray tear escaped and slipped down her pale cheek, leaving a shimmering trail behind.

"Yet, _daughter dear_, let's get this over with now, shall we?" he said.

He quickly moved his hand towards his gun, lying there beside him. Angel didn't move. She didn't pull the trigger nor did she lay down her gun. She just stayed there, suffering her soul in pieces.

Another explosion sounded in the street. Quick daylight and heat and echo and night. And, for a moment, there was still a glimpse of life in the Red Captain's widened eyes. Not surprised, as if he would have known that death coming, but an ultimate look of failure and loss, until he slowly fell onto his face. And there he lay, motionless and silent, his arms spread out, like hugging the frosty street, a dark stain of blood slowly widening at the back of his white shirt.

It was a perfect shot. Straight to the heart.

The gun in John's hand went slowly down.

The night in Sherlock's eyes misted with tears.

Angel dropped to her knees. Her body wrapped itself around the black gun. She pressed it against her chest, as if it was the only thing in this world that she had, anymore. Yet even that had failed her.

And she cried.


	7. Epilogue 1

Epilogue

The evening had turned into the night, long time ago. Stars lit up the black velvet of the universe and the moon made its lonely journey through that immense entity.

In the flat, number 221b Baker Street, the universe had intertwined around a small, warm-coloured wooden object, which was singing quietly. Its miraculous song had no words but was full of emotions and odours and colours, full of life and joy and happiness, and misery and pain and death.

Angel was listening, mute and ecstatic. The world around her had faded away and she was floating in a stream of tones, so sweet that her heart ached. Her eyes were full of tears which she didn't seem to notice. She stared at the bow, as it made its way gently over the strings, back and forth, and she wished it would last forever.

But it didn't.

The last, incredible high, fragile sound faded away into the silence. For a while Sherlock held his position, his eyes shut and his hand slightly raising the bow up. Until he slowly lifted his chin, opened his eyes and let reality creep back into his mind and thoughts. He let his hands drop down. His eyes were shining.

Next to nothing knew those people who claimed that Sherlock Holmes had no heart, as it was right there, in his pale hands, at that very moment. And that heart was vast and deep and enigmatic, like the night in his eyes; a mystery too puzzling even for his enormous brain to solve.

The End of Part One


	8. Part II - Chapter 1

Part two

**The Fragrance of Her Hair**

Chapter 1

After the case of 'The Red Cap' as John headlined it in his blog, Angel disappeared. All they found was a short message on the coffee table:

_Thanks for everything._

_Will be back for the violin._

_Angel_

And two shares of the reward.

The total amount of £10000 for information leading to a conviction had been given to her, of course. She had been completely surprised, as she had known nothing about the reward. But she only took one third and left the rest behind. Somehow John wasn't surprised. But he was sad, as he knew how much she needed the money, and yet didn't take it. John hoped that she had invested her share in something useful, like renting a room. Or buying food.

Sherlock didn't talk about her. As a matter of fact he didn't talk at all, about anything. He was in _that mood _again, like so often when a case was finished and there was nothing interesting for him to live for. But John could see that wasn't all. There was something else bothering Sherlock. To John the reason was quite clear and he wondered if Sherlock himself was still unaware of it. He decided to give it a go.

One evening, when Sherlock had stared at his violin for two hours without moving from the sofa, where he had lounged all day, John sat in the armchair a cup of tea in his hand.

"You should go and find her," he said and glanced at Sherlock.

He didn't respond.

"She might be in trouble."

No respond.

"And she needs you."

Sherlock blinked. There was a long silence and then finally a short answer.

"She doesn't need anybody."

"How do you know?"

"How do _you_ know that she _does_?"

The tall detective suddenly jumped up, stepped across the coffee table and headed for the window. John didn't say anything. He knew when it wasn't worth trying, anymore. He took a sip and turned his face to the flames.

There was a long silence. Then Sherlock turned, sharply, to him and asked irritated, as he hated having to repeat himself:

"I said _'how do you know that she does_'. Are you deaf or what's wrong with you?"

John glanced at him in surprise.

"By the way she looks at you," he said calmly.

"And what way is that, may I ask?"

"It's the way _you_ look at _her_."

"What? I don't look at her in any way! Not in any particular way, I mean."

John raised his eyebrows and took another sip.

"God I hate this!" Sherlock snapped and turned back to the window.

"What is it exactly that you hate?" John asked, his voice still calm and almost indifferent.

"This... this... whole bloody conversation we are having!"

Sherlock threw his hands in the air and turned to stare at his violin, an almost murderous look in his eyes.

"You haven't played for days," John pointed out. "You should play. It helps you to think, you know."

Sherlock glared at him. His lips were compressed and brows drawn down over his eyes. He snorted. He knew that John knew that he didn't play the violin just because it helped him to think but because it helped him to handle his emotions. He had never been good with emotions. Even the mere _word_ made him feel a bit sick in his stomach. And these feelings he was having just now... Well, he didn't want to think about them and even less to talk about them or _to_ _handle_ them, for god's sake!

He would just ignore them all. That's what he would do. He left the window and threw himself back on the sofa. Three hours later he was still laying there. Staring nowhere.

John decided to go to bed.

ooOoo

It didn't get any better as the days followed each other.

Sherlock stayed beside the window far too much, staring at the quiet street, wrapped up in his dressing gown, with bare feet. John bought a nice, warm carpet and placed it on the floor.

Sherlock often glared at Angel's teacup, there on the coffee table. But he didn't move it. John didn't touch the cup either.

Sherlock searched for John's gun. John had already taken it out of the flat. Just in case.

Finding no gun, Sherlock took his harpoon and shot down the bison skull. John took it to the archaeologist to fix, as he knew Sherlock did like it after all.

Sherlock received a box of fingers, again, from Barts and spent one night flattening and stretching and twisting them. In fact, using all possible means of destruction the human imagination could come up with. The multiplicity of possibility was immense. John refuced to notice anything, so long as the fingers didn't end up in his teacup.

Sherlock caused an explosion while trying to cook the rabbit brain in microwave, as an experiment. John didn't clean it up but, instead, called for a cleaner and payed her with Sherlock's money.

The day that Sherlock refused a promising case, John got really worried.

"It was only 'a six'!" Sherlock huffed. "Not worthy of my time."

"Even 'a one' would be better than you staying here, all day long!" John said, trying to hold back his frustration. "I mean, is that ceiling worthy of you time, then? You've been staring at it the whole morning! Not to mention the other days, of course."

"I'm thinking," Sherlock said, sulkily.

"About what? You have no case."

"And if I don't have one, I'm not allowed to think anything at all?"

"Yeah, whatever. Since you've got so much free time you could clean the flat, while I'm gone."

"I think the weather is changing," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Yesterday it was below zero and the wind was blowing from the north. Last night, I saw a few snowflakes and -"

"Yes, I understood. You're not going to clean. Fine. I hope you'll survive, since the fridge is almost empty and you ate all the bread last night."

"I didn't."

"You did. Because, last evening, there was bread there, and in the morning, there was not."

"I didn't eat it. I burned it."

"You _what_?"

"I was comparing modifications of the bread's moisture content between the electric heat produced by the toaster and the similar heat of the real fire."

"So _that's_ what the fire alarm was about, last night! I _knew_ you had something to do with it. You said you didn't! You said it was a malfunction!"

"It was. It shouldn't get that alarmed about toasting bread."

"_Burning_ bread. The whole flat was stinking! It still is, to be honest. Anyway, I hope that even one of those poor pieces of toast found its way into your big mouth."

"I'm afraid I have to disappoint you."

John gave a deep sigh.

"Just tell me, what's wrong with you, Sherlock?"

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"Is it because Angel is not -"

"_There is nothing wrong with me!_"

"Sure. Last time you said that, you'd been drugged," John pointed out, stubbornly, a slightly sceptical tone in his voice. "Don't tell me you have -"

"Just go."

"Sherlock... have you -"

"_No!_"

"Right... fine. Well, see you later, then."

Sherlock didn't respond, and after a while, John shrugged his shoulders, helplessly, and left.

ooOoo

After two weeks, John phoned Lestrade and asked if he could set up a murder, maybe with the assistance of Molly. Lestrade said he was far too busy with the rest of the Readheads and wished him good luck.

After three weeks, John wondered if he should make a call to the sanitorium. But as he couldn't decide which one of them had the more desperate need for treatment, he gave it up.

After three weeks and one day, when finding a dozen boiled eyeballs in the kettle, John seriously considered suicide, for the second time in his life.

After three weeks and two days John prayed to God.

After three weeks and three days... Well, one could say in respond to the prayer and sent from Heaven, Angel came back.


	9. Part II - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It was an ordinary morning. John was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and eating breakfast. Sherlock lay on the floor, all his limbs pointing in different directions, his eyes shut. He had lain there since the evening. John regularly checked he was still breathing and left him in peace.

They didn't hear her coming, as they never did. But there she was, in the doorway, her long hair undone today, flowing down to her waist like a golden fall and a tiny smile on her lips.

John's relief was almost sickening as he saw the girl. She looked healthy, yet pale and somewhat tired, as if she hadn't had enough sleep. In fact she looked like an angel who had stayed for too long here on Earth. He was just about to rush up and say something when Angel put a finger on her lips.

Sherlock hadn't noticed anything. He was still lying on the floor.

Angel sneaked into the room and moved, slowly, to the head of Sherlock's body. She grinned, knelt down and slowly bent forward.

Sherlock had heard, or more likely _felt,_ light footsteps coming close, as he lay there half-sleeping, half-dreaming. He didn't open his eyes. If John thought he was asleep, so much the better. If he thought him unconscious, twice as good. If he thought him dead, perfect. He wanted to be dead. He _would_ be dead, eventually, after some time, if -

Sherlock felt something gliding around his head. Something silky and fragrant. Something that made his heart jump to his throat and stopped his breathing. Breathing? Breathing was boring. No, it was not boring. Not now when there was that miraculous scent in the air. He inhaled the fragrance deep into his chest, and opened his eyes.

He saw her face upside down. No. He saw only her eyes, blue and deep and smiling. The dusk in her eyes had turned to dawn, so golden and bright that his heart ached. And he was still half-sleeping and half-dreaming wasn't he? Since he never thought things like that and it wasn't him who was thinking them now, either, was it? And did she have some green in her eyes? And was it only her hair or was the sun shining out there somewhere as the whole world had turned to gold.

And then she was gone. Standing up. And the scent was gone and the shine of gold was gone and he wanted them back right now and forever.

What? Did he just think that? What _did_ he think and had he finally lost his mind, and why was John smiling so broadly and what the _hell_ was going on?

Sherlock scrambled to his feet. He felt stiff and lightheaded. Of course, he had been lying there for an eternity and when, exactly, did he last eat? It was clearly time to eat something. His knees felt strange and his heart was hammering against his ribcage. Obviously due to far too much staying awake and very little sleep.

Obviously.

He stared at her. She was smiling, right there, in front of him.

"How's your shoulder keeping?"

He couldn't believe he just said that. It was probably the most idiotic thing he had ever heard anyone say and -

Something hit him lightly in the stomach. He groaned in surprise. Angel pulled her left fist back and raised it in the air.

"Better than ever," she smiled.

The punch dropped Sherlock back on the ground and he was hugely grateful for it. He felt more or less sane again and was able to smile at her. So he did, from the bottom of his heart.

Angel joined them for breakfast. It felt somehow as if it had all started from the beginning once more. And yet it wasn't the same.

Sherlock could tell the difference, well enough, and it made him hate himself. He hated himself for realizing how much brighter the day was now that Angel was around. He hated himself for feeling so unreasonable pleased at the sight of her free-flowing hair. He hated, no, he _feared _himself for wanting to glide his hands through and bury his face in that golden, silky fall and inhale the scent of her hair again. He had already forgotten what it was like, but only knew it had been something miraculous.

He hoped it would all pass soon.

And yet he didn't.

"You should have taken all the money, you know," John said in a quiet voice.

Angel glanced at him, smiling slightly.

"I'd like to give my -"

"No, John. Please don't. Let's not talk about it, right? I have all I need and that's that."

John looked at her and nodded slowly.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He was busy shooting down his ridiculous thoughts.

"So, where do you stay nowadays?" John asked and took a bite of his toast.

"I rented a small room," Angel said.

"Where is it?"

"Out there...," she waved her hand, vaguely.

"You should tell us the address," John said.

"Why?" she asked, smiling, pouring some tea into her teacup. Yes, into _that_ cup.

"In case we need you."

"What you'd need me for?"

"Lestrade might need you," Sherlock said suddenly.

John snorted and glanced at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I've got a phone," Angel said calmly. "You can have my number."

"Well, that's better than nothing, isn't it, Sherlock?" John said and looked at him, amused.

Sherlock made an approving noise in his throat.

"So, are you ready for the torture, Mr Holmes?" Angel asked, putting her teacup on the table and turning her blue gaze at Sherlock.

"What?"

"The violin," she said, patiently. "I guess you consider it more a torture than actual teaching, don't you?"

"Er..."

"Well, that's your problem. I held up my end and now it's your turn."

Sherlock cleared his throat. He wanted to say it wouldn't be a torture, at least not all of it. And he wanted to ask why she called him Mr. Holmes and not Sherlock. Then he realised that she had _never_ called him Sherlock. Not once. And then he realised _he_ hadn't called her Angel, either.

"When do you want to start?" was all he asked.

"Now," she said shortly.


	10. Part II - Chapter 3

**Author's note: If you want to make reading more enjoyable, you could go to Youtube and listen Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor (violin, Joshua Bell's version is great). It's the piece of music Sherlock is playing in the end of the chapter.**

* * *

Chapter 3

Angel held the violin carefully, like it was made of glass. She stroked it and sniffed it and smiled at it. She placed it under her chin and bent her head lovingly. Her long, blond hair glided against the neck of the violin.

Sherlock stood beside her, observing. Well, no need to comment about the holding. It came naturally, he thought to himself. And her hair was really beautiful.

Angel took the bow from Sherlock and placed her fingers to the exact spots Sherlock had told her before. First joints of the fingers against the wood, little finger on the top and slightly curved thumb underneath, meeting the middle finger. Then she draw the bow across the strings few times, back and forth, and made a smooth, steady, even sound.

Well, no need to comment about the drawing, either, Sherlock pondered. She pulled the bow straight, parallel to the bridge, bent her elbow and compensated the weight of the bow really well. Quite extraordinary actually, as he had shown her only once. And wasn't that hair almost like a golden cloak on her shoulders? It seemed to capture the light and reflect it, brightly, around the room... After a moment he noticed that Angel was looking at him, waiting for more instructions.

"Your little finger needs to sit on top of the bow all the time and stay there," he said.

Angel corrected it right away and made yet another draw. Sherlock watched her hair moving in the air. He had never seen anyone's hair look so soft, so silky. Actually, he was pretty sure he had never seen anyone's hair at all. Well, he had _seen_, yes, but not really observed. Or cared to observe. Why would he? I mean, wasn't that a waste of time and braincells anyway, to look at somebody's hair? A stupid thing to spend your time with. Really, he should stop it immediately and -

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked. He forced his eyes away from her hair and cleared his throat.

"Now, when you place your first finger on the G-string, it's the one there at the edge, keep it curved and apply slightly more pressure on the left side," he instructed.

"At what spot, exactly?" she asked.

"One and a half inch down from the nut. That's A."

"From the nut?"

"It's this place where the strings rest on the fingerboard," he said and pointed at it with his long forefinger. He slew his desire to touch her hair.

She placed her finger precisely one and a half inch down from the nut and played an A, clear and pure. Sherlock nodded shortly.

John was watching them in amazement. How could they make the whole thing of playing sound like maths? Where were all the feelings he had seen on their faces, when Sherlock had played that violin nearly a month ago? And how would that poor girl, however tough she was, survive being taught by Sherlock, the most pedantic man on earth? She did it all perfectly and yet, he didn't give her any compliments. And what the hell Sherlock was waiting for with that hair, anyway?

The teaching continued. Sherlock asked Angel to do things and she did, mostly perfectly, and when making a mistake she corrected it right away and didn't repeat. Sherlock kept on staring at her hair and John kept on staring at Sherlock's face.

After an hour Angel raised her chin and handed the violin to Sherlock.

"Please, make it sing," she asked quietly.

He looked at her for a moment. Then his eyes softened a bit.

"What do you want to hear?" he asked, almost tenderly.

"Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. He didn't say anything but nodded and placed the violin under his chin, and played.

Angel listened, a delirious look on her face. Her eyes gleamed with tears and her lips were trembling. This time, Sherlock watched her as he played, and what he saw made his chest burn. It was like the drawing of the bow was tearing her heart apart, yet the smile on her lips was so full of wonder and delight that he kept on playing, gritting his teeth and forcing his hand to move smoothly back and fort. And suddenly he remembered the word she had used before.

_A torture._

When the last sound faded away Sherlock had broken out in cold sweat all over. Angel didn't notice anything. She stared nowhere and her lips were moving, shaping words that she whispered into the silence of the room:

_And then the player changed his tone,  
And wrought another miracle  
Of music, half a prayer, half moan,  
A cry exceeding sorrowful._

_A strain of pity for the weak,_  
_The poor that fall without a cry,_  
_The common hearts that never speak,_  
_But break beneath the press and die..._

There was a long silence. Sherlock and John looked at her. Finally she lifted her eyes and glanced at them both. Her gaze was still cloudy and distant, but she was slowly coming back from where ever she had been. She took a deep breath, blinked her tears away and smiled a little.

"_Archibald Lampman_," she said gently. "A Canadian poet. Did you know that his grave is marked by a natural stone on which is carved only the word, '_Lampman_'? When I die I want a gravestone on which is carved only the word '_Angel_'."

She looked at Sherlock, deep into his mind and there was something in her eyes that turned Sherlock's stomach. As if she had said that on purpose. To him. He swallowed and forced his voice calm and steady.

"Angels don't die," he said quietly.

"What do they do then?" she asked, a thin smile on her lips.

Sherlock shrugged. His eyes flicked toward John and then quickly back, and there was an odd, almost suffering look on his face when he answered:

"They just... fly away."


	11. Part II - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

During the next two weeks, Angel came to Baker Street four times. She didn't stay long, but only learned some more about the violin and was gone again. As a player, she was dedicated and hard-working but sensitive. She made progress with huge steps, and Sherlock was amazed. Of course, he didn't show it, but he did give her his old violin, to practise between the actual lessons. She played it all day long.

Once, when Angel had just finished the lesson for the day, John asked, playfully, if there was anything she couldn't do or learn, since she seemed to be so talented in many things. She looked at him for a long time and then lowered her eyes.

"I've got time to practise. A lot of time. I always did, since I never went to school or did any kind of real work or... went anywhere."

John's smile died away and he stayed quiet for a while, thinking.

"How did you learn how to read and write, then?" he asked, at last.

"Just by myself."

John was quiet again. Then, with worried voice, he asked:

"Do you have any friends, Angel?"

She didn't answer but took her coat and put it on. She nodded at Sherlock and then turned to face John.

"I can't eat blood pancakes," she said.

"I'm sorry?"

"You asked me, if there was anything I cannot do. I'm telling you, I can't eat blood pancakes." And then there was only a quiet slam of the door, the creek of the stair, and she was gone.

"What the hell are blood pancakes?" John asked, completely taken aback.

"A traditional Scandinavian food," Sherlock answered.

"You mean like... pancakes made of _blood_?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't think I could eat those, either," John said, a look of disgust on his face.

After that, John didn't ask more about Angel's friends or anything about her private life. She, clearly, didn't want to talk about it and John had always been delicate with that kind of thing. Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn't too concerned about finding out that she probably had no friends at all, since he himself had never had one before John, and he never even wanted any. Well, maybe he did, in those early days, but they were long since gone and Sherlock had, pretty actively, deleted all the memories from his childhood and youth from his hard drive, anyway. What interested him more about Angel was, what she was doing when she was not there, at Baker Street. Except playing the violin. Sherlock had tried to deduce it from her but he couldn't, and it truly irritated him. He told himself, however, to stay away from her life. It wasn't as easy as he hoped but easier than before, when she had just disappeared. Because now, Sherlock knew she was coming back, for sure. They had made a deal that Sherlock would give her ten violin lessons. Sherlock, himself, wasn't fond of defining any exact number but Angel had insisted. So, ten lessons it was, then.

During those weeks Sherlock had only a few dull, meaningless cases, ran by extremely stupid small fry. He was getting so bored that he almost regretted Moriarty's death. The weather with endless, heavy rain, didn't really cheer him up, either, since he was wet like a drowned rat after every lousy case.

"I don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes; good job I'm not one of them," he huffed one evening, sprawling on the sofa and not even bothering to glance at John, who had just stepped in.

"You have said that already, you know," John pointed out, taking off his wet coat and shaking it, spattering the drops everywhere.

"Have I?"

"Yes, and that time you took it out on the wall, remember?"

"No."

"No? The smily face is still there, grinning at my insanity, for spending every goddamn day of my life with a guy like you."

"Thanks, that cheered me up."

"You're most welcome. Anything in, I'm starving."

"You've said that already, you know."

"Have I?"

"Yes, and that time there was a severed head in the fridge."

"Uh, don't tell me - "

"No."

"Thank God."

"Just a severed hand. I'm measuring the decreasing of the synovial fluid after death."

"Jesus... Nice of you to warn me, anyway. Or was that the reason why you said the thing about the criminal classes?"

"Yes and no. There is something going on, out there. There _has_ to be."

"Why?"

"Because of the lack of cases! There has _never_ been this tiny amount of cases, before!"

"Well, for the rest of the people, that's just fine."

"I'm not the rest of the people."

"Indeed."

John sighed and walked into the kitchen. He tried not to look at the arm in the fridge but, of course, he did look at it and, suddenly, he was not so hungry anymore. He stood in front of the fridge, staring at the pale arm, which was crooked at an odd angle, circled by tens of test tubes. He shut the door, suddenly feeling very tired. He thought for a moment and then slipped the phone out of his pocket and sent a text.

_Evening, Angel. Would you like to have some tea? - John_

After a few second his phone peeped.

_Is he being impossible? - Angel_

John smiled.

_Not impossible, just bored. And I don't trust my nerve just now. The day at the surgery was pretty wearing. - John_

_Righ. I'll be there after a short while. - Angel_

_Thank you. - John_

_Anytime! :) - Angel_

"Why are you texting her?" Sherlock's low voice carried over from the living room.

John sighed.

"How in earth did you know it was her?"

"By the quickness of the response. Is she coming here?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because she wants to have some tea with us."

"Because you asked her to come, because I'm being impossible."

"Whatever. She is coming here and that's that. And you can keep your mouth shut if you don't have anything nice to say to her."

Sherlock snorted but didn't response. He allowed a brief, happy smile appear on his lips but it was gone before John came to the room and sat in his armchair. They listened, quietly, as the whole London drowned under the heavy rain. They didn't talk but it was not an uneasy silence. It was a silence between two, extremely close people, who knew eachother well enough to be able to remain quiet without embarrasment. Finally, they heard the door open. Angel stood in the doorway, soaking wet, a bag in her hand.

"Hi, John," she said, smiling at him. Then she turned her eyes to Sherlock, who was still lounging on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and trying to look like one who was waiting for an untimely death. "I brought you something, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"What is it?" he asked and almost bothered to turn his head to her. But not quite.

"It's a storybook."

"I hate stories."

"Yes, I know, but it's about bees. And I know you like bees."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do. You have a book about beekeeping, which you obviously have read a lot."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know what a book looks like when it's well read."

"Anybody could have read it! The previous owners for example."

"There was only one previous owner, and she was a woman. That book has been sold only once, because there's only one mark of price and no signs of rubbing out nor the marks of labels of any kind. So you bought it and you read it."

"Maybe _she_ did."

"No, she didn't. Not unless she was fond of chemistry. There are stains and smudges on nearly every page, such as acid, coal, sulfur and gunpowder."

"Just give it up, Sherlock!" John said, smiling. He rose up to make the evening meal and listened the exchange of words greatly amused.

"Ok, what if I did. I still hate stories," Sherlock grumbled.

"You don't know if you don't try," Angel said, calmly. "And you don't have to bother yourself because I'm going to read it out."

Sherlock gave a deep sigh.

"Right. I don't think it can make me any more dead than I already am."

"No need to say thanks, you know. That word has always been overrated."

"I agree."

Angel snorted and sat down beside the fire. She took a book from the bag and placed it upon her knees. Sherlock couldn't help but turn his head and glance at the book. It was_ Winnie the Pooh_. He slapped his palm to his forehead and groaned.

"I take back my words. I can evidently get even more dead!"

"Considering the fact that the more dead you are the less noise you make, we still have a long way to go," Angel said and opened the book. "Have you ever actually read Winnie the Pooh.?"

"_Absolutely_ not."

"Then don't deduce without the facts. You should know that, shouldn't you. Mr. Holmes?"

"For heaven's sake..."

"Now, shut up and listen."

Sherlock took another deep breath and closed his eyes.


	12. Part II - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"_Chapter 1, in which we are introduced to Winnie the Pooh and some bees, and the stories begin."_ Angel's voice was low and enjoyable. It immediately created an atmosphere of stories, beyond the reality. Clearly, she had read out many times before.

"_Here is Edward Bear coming - "_

"Who the hell is Edward?" Sherlock interrupted. "I thought it was about Winnie the Pooh!"

"They'll explain it later on, my dear idiot," Angel said and glanced at Sherlock, who had now turned his head to her. "Just listen." She cleared her throat and started again:

"_Here is Edward Bear - "_

"You said that already."

"Well, I can't start reading in the middle of the sentence!"

"Why not?"

"Because it sounds stupid and also cuts the sense of wonder."

"Does it? What sense of wonder?"

"If you'd just let the story begin, properly, even you could _probably_ notice some sense somewhere, with your miserable travesty of a brain."

"No need to be rude. John is listening."

"Shut up then, you blockhead."

Sherlock turned his gaze to the ceiling, sighing.

" - _coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump on the back of his head -"_

"What, that didn't make any sense!" Sherlock cried and turned his head again.

"I told you it wouldn't work if I started in the middle!"

"Why did you do so, then?"

"Because I already read it twice!"

"_Third time's a cha-a-arm_," Sherlock said in a sing-song voice.

"Dear God. Maybe this wasn't so great idea, after all," Angel said and slammed the book shut.

"No, don't stop yet!" Sherlock cried. "I want to know why he came downstairs on the back of his head!"

John bursted out giggling in the kitchen. Angel glared at Sherlock.

"I promise I'll be quiet, okay?" Sherlock said.

"You better be, or I'll force this book down your throat, to do the job."

"You obviously have something against my throat," Sherlock said.

"Yes, I do. It obviously makes too much noise for my taste."

"I - "

"And it's also so gorgeous and beautiful that I don't want to harm it in any way, so you just better keep it quiet," Angel cut him off.

For once Sherlock Holmes was lost for words. He blushed, slightly, and turned his face away, trying to hide his embarrassment. Angel opened the book again, eyebrows furrowed, but a victorious smirk on her lips. She cleared her throat and started for the third time:

_"Here is Edward Bear coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it - "_

"That sounds like Anderson," Sherlock said suddenly, smiling broadly.

"You said you wouldn't interrupt," Angel reminded him, her voice already softened and a light, inscrutable smile rippling on her lips.

"Right, sorry."

"_And then he feels that perhaps there isn't. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh."_

"Hang on," Sherlock said. "If his name was originally Edward, how can they call him Winnie? That female given name is of Welsh origin, if you didn't know, meaning 'fair and smooth'."

"Yes, how utterly sharp of you. And it seems to me, that this story matches your IQ perfectly."

"What do you mean?"

"The next sentence is: _When I first heard his name, I said, just as you are going to say, "But I thought he was a boy?" _Angel looked up at Sherlock a mischievous smile on her face. Sherlock snorted. John made a funny noise in the kitchen.

"Shall I go on?"

"Whatever."

Angel kept on reading.

_"So did I," said Christopher Robin._

_"Then you can't call him Winnie?"_

_"I don't."_

_"But you said-"_

_"He's Winnie-_ther_-Pooh. Don't you know what 'ther' means?"_

_"Ah, yes, now I do," I said quickly; and I hope you do too, because it is all the explanation you are going to get."_

"What? He can't possibly do that!" Sherlock cried.

"Do what? Who?" Angel asked. Her patience was wearing thin.

"The writer! He didn't tell what that "ther" means. Is it because he didn't know or because he was just too lazy to write it down? And how does it make the bear into a boy, anyway, if he has girl's name? That doesn't make any sense. What a stupid book!"

"Look, I think we should just pass the introduction and get to the bee story, right away." Angel said and sighed. "If you still want to hear about bees?"

"I'm desperately looking forward to it."

"Thank you for your over-flowing enthusiasm. It makes the reading most enjoyable."

"Anytime."

Angel turned the page. John began to set the table, as Angel kept on reading:

_"Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about last Friday, Winnie-the-Pooh lived in a forest all by himself under the name of Sanders._

Sherlock suddenly sat up on the sofa.

"Did it really say _Sanders_? Oh, I knew it! This is great! Go on!"

And Angel did.

_"What does 'under the name' mean?" asked Christopher Robin. "It means he had the name over the door in gold letters, and lived under it."_

"Brilliant!" Sherlock said, happily. "I might call him_ Sanders'-son-the-Pooh_ from now on. Or, shortly, Anderson-the-Pooh. I'm sure he'll love it!"

John gave a laugh.

"Definitely, and what about Sergeant Donovan? Is she Pigglet, then?" he asked and smirked.

"Oh, yes! Sally the Pigglet." Sherlock clapped his hands joyfully together and laid down again, smiling. And the story continued:

"_One day when he was out walking, he came to an open place in the middle of the forest, and in the middle of this place was a large oak-tree, and, from the top of the tree, there came a loud buzzing-noise. Winnie-the-Pooh sat down at the foot of the tree, put his head between his paws and began to think -"_

"Would you mind calling him Anderson-the-Pooh, instead?" Sherlock asked and looked at Angel, hopefully.

"I would. This is about Winnie and Winnie it will be."

"Pity."

_"First of all he said to himself: "That buzzing-noise means something. You don't get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there's a buzzing-noise, somebody's making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you're a bee. Then he thought another long time, and said: "And the only reason for being a bee that I know of is making honey."_

Sherlock gave an amused snort and delightedly pointed out:

"That level of reasoning matches Anderson precicly, doesn't it!"

Angel and John looked at him and then at each other. They smiled and John shook his head. He was so happy that Angel had shown up to save the evening. He waved at the table.

"Come on, you idiots. Eat up."

"No, I want to hear this story first," Sherlock said.

"You can hear it afterwards."

"I can read it while you two eat," Angel said. "I've eaten already. Properly," she added, seeing a sceptical expression on John's face.

"You were suppose to have tea here," he said.

"The best tea-times always include story-telling. That's my part of this tea."

"I don't think it's going to work," John said. "But whatever. C'mon Sherlock."

Angel stared at Sherlock and, when he realised she wasn't going to read until he was at the table, he pushed himself up and took a chair. Angel continued and everything was fine (except John's quiet giggling and Sherlock's low chuckle, every now and then, and a few bitter comments about Anderson) until she got to the balloons:

_"It's like this," Winnie-the-Pooh said. "When you go after honey with a balloon, the great thing is not to let the bees know you're coming. Now, if you have a green balloon, they might think you were only part of the tree, and not notice you, and if you have a blue balloon, they might think you were only part of the sky, and not notice you, and the question is: Which is most likely?"_

_"Wouldn't they notice you underneath the balloon?" you asked._

_"They might or they might not," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "You never can tell with bees." He thought for a moment and said: "I shall try to look like a small black cloud. That will deceive them."_

Sherlock made an odd, gurgling noice and burst into a loud guffaw, spatting the tea all over the table.

"This is... the most ridicilous... story...I have ever heard!" he gasped, through his laughter, and held his stomach. He made funny noises trying to hold the laughter back, but it took quite a while. The expression on his face was something between a wide smirk and a painful grimace, when he finally pulled himself together.

"My stomach is hurting," he moaned.

"Maybe I'll read it later on, then" Angel offered.

"No, don't! I... I can handle this."

"Just please, don't take any more tea," John asked. "My cup is full of your DNA already."

So they went on, up to the point where Winnie the Pooh was in the air, hanging from the balloon:

_"There was no wind to blow him nearer to the tree, so there he stayed. He could see the honey, he could smell the honey, but he couldn't quite reach the honey._

_After a little while he called down to you._

_"Christopher Robin!" he said in a loud whisper._

_"Hallo!"_

_"I think the bees suspect something!"_

_"What sort of thing?"_

_"I don't know. But something tells me that they're suspicious!"_

_"Perhaps they think that you're after their honey?"_

_"It may be that. You never can tell with bees."_

_There was another little silence, and then he called down to you again._

_"Christopher Robin!"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Have you an umbrella in your house?"_

_"I think so."_

_"I wish you would bring it out here, and walk up and down with it, and look up at me every now and then, and say 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain.' I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees."_

At this point, Sherlock was laughing almost hysterically. It was that silent laughter, when you really can't control it anymore but it just keeps coming and coming. His face had gone pink and he had bent over, holding his stomach. John was giggling and moaning, too, but Angel wasn't. She was far too experienced a reader for that, but her voice was shaking, badly, as she read, so she stopped for a while.

She looked at the other two, a broad smile on her face. She was really happy to see how much they enjoyed a simple story. Of course, it was mostly because of having Anderson in their minds. But that had rather been the point, to be fair. She had known Sherlock would spot the connection between Sanders and Anderson. And, after all, Winnie the Pooh's honey-hunting _was_ a good story. If anyone could read it without even a grin on his face, he had to be extremely dull.

They managed to get through the story. It wasn't a long story, after all, but it took quite a long time to read, because Angel didn't want anyone to die for lack of oxygen. And, once it was finished, Angel decided it was enough for one evening. She closed the book and put it in her bag. It was still raining hard but she took her coat, still wet, and wrapped it around herself.

"You could still stay, it's not that late," John said.

"Thanks, John, but I have some other things to do. I'm not sure if this bedtime-story was the best one to calm you boys down and make you ready for bed, but at least you liked it." She smiled, almost tenderly, and looked at Sherlock, who was sitting at the table, looking at her, still smiling, more colour in his pale cheeks than usual.

"Did you like the story of the bees, Mr. Holmes?" Angel asked.

For a while Sherlock remained silent. Then he answered, truthfully.

"I did."

Angel smiled and nodded. She turned around and in a flurry of black, hooded coat, she was gone.

And it became obvious, that Sherlock was so fond of the story, that he even composed a tune for the "Cloud Song", which Winnie the Pooh was singing when hanging from the balloon. And he hummed it every now and then at the crime scene, if Anderson was around.

_How sweet to be a Cloud_

_Floating in the Blue!_

_Every little cloud_

_Always sings aloud._

Of course, it drove Anderson crazy, as did the nickname Anderson-the-Pooh. And, as long as that man was stupid enough to go crazy about it, Sherlock continued teasing him. Unfortunately, he was rather stupid, so the show went on for days and it didn't get any better when Sherlock started to call Donovan Sally-the-Pigglet. He didn't stop even when Lestrade threatened to kick him out of the Yard and never, ever call him again. Because Sherlock knew he couldn't keep that promise.

So there was no way out and, sometimes, John thought that Angel had gone a little bit too far, by putting that glorious idea into Sherlock's head. When he reminded Angel of that, she only smiled her mischievous smile.

"I might be responsible for Anderson-the-Pooh, but it was you who made up Sally-the-Pigglet."

John tought about that for a while, then he smiled, warmly.

"It's true, innit? But she isn't a very nice woman."

"No. No, she isn't, is she?

"Frankly, a bloody awful sergeant."

"That's true. She is a bad sergeant. And you should have seen her nostrils when she heard that nickname for the first time."

They both burst out giggling, silently, like two young schoolmates who had a shared, dirty secret.

"Stop! We can't giggle. It's a serious business! Stop it," John said.

"You're the one who invented her, not me," Angel smiled, still sniggering.


	13. Part II - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

A few days after the story-reading Sherlock was resqued by a new, deeply interesting case. Two employees had gone missing, in odd circumstancies, from The Tower of London. No bodies were found. Sherlock spent two pleasant days finding out the less pleasant fact that he couldn't solve the case. At first, he didn't believe it. He was sure he had missed something crucial. He went through all the evidence, all the details, all the facts, again and again. But it was no use. The case was, and remained, unsolved, and Sherlock was not pleased.

Then Lestrade called. The Redhead Gang was giving him grey hair.

"It might be that they have a new leader," his familiar voice spoke on the phone. "Paleface, as they call him. Jesus, where they get those names! Anyway, the caller thought he is from Latvia. They are reorganizing themselves and I really don't want it to happen, as we are so close to hunt them down at this end. Would you mind me coming there and having a word with Angel?"

"She is not here." Sherlock said sharply, still grumpy because of his previous failure.

"Isn't she? Oh... okay, can you tell me where she lives."

"No."

"Why not!"

"Because I don't know it, either."

"You don't _know_. How is it possible that _you_ don't know?"

"Because I just don't!"

"Do you mean you haven't been able to track her down?"

"I haven't actually tried," Sherlock snarled. "But I do have a - "

"What? A phone number?"

"Come here."

"What?"

"Come here."

"Sherlock - "

Sherlock ended the phone call and sent a quick text:

_Lestrade needs you here. - SH_

A short answer came almost immediately:

_I'm not a dog. - Angel_

_Who said you were? - SH_

_Someone seems to _ think_ I am. - Angel_

_Who? - SH_

_Some bloody idiot. - Angel_

_Even if somebody thinks you're a dog, it's not a good enough reason to refuse helping the police in their duty. - SH_

_As if that somebody cared about the police and their duties. - Angel_

_He does! - SH_

_No, he really doesn't. - Angel_

_So, you're not coming, then? - SH_

_I might consider it, if that somebody actually _asked _me to come. - Angel_

_I did ask you to come! - SH_

_No, you didn't. - Angel_

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled lopsidedly. He hesitated for a moment. Then, almost as if he had to force himself, he typed:

_Could you possibly be bothered to come? _

But then he erased it and wrote: _Would you come? _

He erased it, too, and wrote: _Please. _He didn't have time to send it, as his phone peeped.

_Having difficulties? - Angel_

Sherlock erased the 'please' and wrote:

_Shut up. - SH_

It was easy enough to send.

_Anytime. - Angel_

Shit... This wasn't going to work. Why did she have to be so infuriating? Why couldn't she just do as he said. Everyone else did. Sherlock waited for two minutes but the phone remained mute. He sighed and wrote again:

_Please. - SH _

And sent it.

There was no answer but after twenty minutes Angel stood in their doorway, smiling at Lestrade and grinning at Sherlock, who was pissed off because he hadn't known if she was coming or not and because Lestrade had teased him about that ever since he arrived.

"Did that dog eat your phone or did you just forget how to write?" Sherlock snapped.

"_Either write something worth reading or do things worth writing_,"Angel quoted.

Sherlock snorted, impatiently.

"I'm pleased to see you, too," Angel said cheerfully. "So, what is it?" she asked and sat down on the sofa, ignoring Sherlock's annoyed face. Lestrade explained.

"Paleface..." Angel murmured. "I remember hearing that name somewhere... Wait a minute..." She jumped up to pace around the room. "Don't know anyone suitable from Latvia, though, but it makes sense..."

"Why?" Lestrade asked.

"There are a large number of girls coming from Eastern Europe, such as the Baltic States and Russia. Where did you get the information?" she asked. "Who gave you the name?"

"It was an anonymous call to Crime Stoppers. It's a service that people can ring and tell the police - "

"I know what it is," Angel cut off, impatiently. "So, you couldn't trace or record it. Too bad."

"No, but the caller said she was calling from Finland, from Helsinki to be more precise."

"Finland?" Angel asked, interested. "Was she Finnish herself?"

"I don't know. Why?"

Angel shrugged and said nothing.

"I can tell you she was not English, anyway," Lestrade said. "They said she spoke a funny way. Pronounced 's' sounds very strongly."

"Is that so? Then, she is probably from Russia or from some other Former Soviet Union countries," Angel said, contemplatively.

"Any other sounds heard from the background?" Sherlock cut in.

"Dunno, sorry."

"What is it like in their funny little brains? It must be so boring! Really, Lestrade, how can you bear it? Those sounds could have told us so much!" Sherlock's voice was full of disdain.

Lestrade held his hands out and looked apologetic. He eyed at the other two for a moment, as if waiting for more information but Angel and Sherlock remained silent. Lestrade shrugged and asked, a note of desperation in his voice:

"Why in earth would someone from Finland call here, anyway?"

"It's a passage country," Sherlock deigned to answer with his _do-I-really-have-to-explain-this-obvious-thing_ voice. "Most of the victims of human trafficking, from the Former Soviet Union countries are transferred via Poland, all over Central and southern Europe. But victims coming from Russia are often transferred through Finland."

"Okay. Yeah, this whole human trafficking is not really my area but, since it involves several murders and killings, it seems to fall onto my shoulders all the time." Lestrade rubbed his face with both hands. He looked tired. "You remember that fight in the outskirts? About a month ago, when The Red Cap was killed? It turned out that two of them were shot with the same gun. And guess what? Jeff Hope, that mad taxi driver was shot with that gun, too! Seems like there is some secret superhero in this city, sneaking around and killing bad guys. And, if that wasn't enough, the third man was shot with that gun familiar from those gang battles. You told me that the killer had gone to South-America!

"The fact that the gun is still here doesn't mean the man hadn't gone away. Only a complete fool would try to take a murder weapon on the plane, don't you think?" Sherlock said, casually.

"Yeah, right," Lestrade sighed. "Bloody good shots, all these guys, anyway. Could be assassins, of course..."

Angel swallowed and almost started to button up her coat. She had been careful not to show her gun to Lestrade. She always wore a coat, when out of her flat. Usually she wore it even at Baker Street. Just in case. It seemed that had been a wise move. She exchanged a glance with Sherlock. The annoyance was gone and there was light amusement in his eyes and something deeper. Something dark and alluring. Angel inhaled slowly and turned her head away.

"I need to think about this," she said. "I'll be in touch."

"Right, okay. Thanks," Lestrade said.

"Anything else going on?" Sherlock asked.

"Enough. Nothing that would interest you, though, but if you're short on work you could try to find out something about that villain, Paleface."

"You know I don't like prying, if there's no case."

"Yeah, I know. Well, just a thought. I'll call you when he kills someone. Hopefully he'll do it cleverly enough to get you on his track." Lestrade grinned, gloomily, took his coat and went off.

Angel sat in John's armchair.

"At the surgery?"

"Yeah."

"Right..."

Suddenly, Sherlock smiled.

"What?"

"_Bloody good shots._"

Angel grinned.

"Well, I'll need to wear my coat, from now on, even in my bed. I hope the Spring isn't going to be too hot."

Sherlock smiled.

"John'll be back in an hour. You want to come to Angelo's with us?"

"Would be fun. His confusion is amusing."

"What do you mean?"

"Surely you have noticed? He presumed you and John were a couple and now there's me. And he can't figure out if I'm with you or with John or with both of you, perhaps. Or if we are all together."

Sherlock stared at her. He had noticed it, of course. He just didn't find it interesting enough to waste his braincells on.

"Does it bother you?" he asked.

"Not in the slightest," Angel said. "Would you mind..." She nodded towards the violin, shyly. Sherlock smiled and stood up. He picked up the violin and played, until John came back.


	14. Part II - Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Angelo's place was almost full but they got a table and sat down. Angelo was, as always, pleased to see Sherlock. He didn't mind Angel being with him, since she always paid her food, as did John nowadays. It was his way to point out that he and Sherlock were not a couple but it was, probably, a waste of time and money.

"How was your day, then, John?" Angel asked, dropping her hood down and brushing a few unruly hairs off her face.

"Oh, nothing special," John said, removing his black coat and placing it next to him, on the bench. "Busy, as usual. One pretty sad case occurred, though, and I was wondering... but maybe I shouldn't - "

"A sexually abused patient?" Angel cut him off, calmly.

"No, but..."

"But what?"

"She didn't talk much, mostly because she couldn't. She had been beaten up pretty badly. Anyway, she told me that she had tried to help a group of young, black girls, who had been transported from Nigeria to London and who had been waiting - I don't know where - for the flight to Torino, Italy, where they were supposed to work as waitresses. At least, that's what the girls thought they were going to be... She had tried to tell them that they were all going straight into a trap..."

Angel gave a deep sigh.

"Yes, I know what you're talking about. Those girls have been sent from home to earn a living for the whole family back there, in Africa. They are going to be hookers, most likely."

"Do you mean... do you mean that their parents _knew_ about what was going to happen?"

"Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. But when they finally do, they usually don't care about it, anyway, as long as the girls keep on sending money home. They might be lucky or they might not."

"Who?"

"The girls. If they work hard enough, they can pay the dept in a couple of years and, maybe, if they are not too broken or end up dead, they can go on and have a life."

"What dept?"

"The cost of the flights and faked passports and all that stuff. It's usually something between 30 000-60 000 euros, plus all their day-to-day living expenses, naturally. They even have to pay for their 'pitch', the spot they work from, on the street." Angel talked with a low, indifferent voice. She was looking at her hands, there, on the table.

John looked at her, lost for words. Angel glanced at him, briefly, and lowered her gaze again.

"John, just... don't think about it, okay? That's the way the world goes on. You can't do anything about it. It's going on all the time, all around the world, the selling and buying. Tens of thousands of women and children, every year, goes straight to the hell."

"But... how is it _possible_? I mean... what about the Customs, what about the airports, the police, surely they must be able to do something!"

"As long as there are buyers, there are sellers, and as long as there is money in this world, someone is happy to let it take over his or her conscience."

"Jesus..." John averted his eyes from Angel and looked out of the window, silenced by Angel's words and that blank look on her face.

"So, anything about Paleface yet?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence and leaning his elbows on the table.

"Who is he?" John asked, glad of the change of subject.

"Might be the new leader of the Redhead Gang, some chap from Latvia," Sherlock explained.

Angel shook her head.

"It's haunting in the back of my mind but can't really figure it out. I remember seeing him once, vaguely. It's a blurred memory, as if I was partly unconcious or... ill, somehow. You know what I mean? Like a dream. A bad dream. I remember... I remember myself thinking about Snow White: _And the red looked pretty upon the white snow, and she thought to herself, would that I had a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood of the window-frame..._ It had something to do with blood and his pale face and, yes, he had dark hair..."

Angel shuddered and shook her head again, as if to get rid of an unpleasant thought.

"Well, it will come sooner or later," she said, smiling. "Meanwhile, would you like to entertain us, Mr. Holmes, by revealing the secrets of our unfortunate fellow customers?"

Sherlock grinned and asked:

"Who is it that you want to know everything about?"

Angel looked around the restaurant, searching for a victim when, suddenly, she froze. Her face turned stony and a hard glint came into her eyes.

"What is it?" John asked, turning his head.

There were two men and a woman a nearby table, and John didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to understand. The woman was definitely a prostitute and the men, sturdy and hard-looking guys, could be nothing but gangsters, considering that Angel clearly knew them. Sherlock didn't turn his head. He knew it all already. He kept his eyes on Angel.

"Do you want... us to leave?" John asked, eyeing at Angel.

Angel shook her head. The gangster in leather jacket had noticed her and he bent down to his companion. They talked for a while, glancing at Angel. The woman behind them wasn't interested in anything. She stared at the table, her hands in her lap and the food untouched on the plate, in front of her.

Angel turned her face back to Sherlock. Before she had time to open her mouth, the gangsters stood up and waved the woman to come along. They passed the trio's table on their way out. The glare they gave Angel was threatening. Angel kept her eyes on Sherlock, not really seeing him, her fists tightly clenched on the table, her feet separated and pressing into the floor and head and shoulders leaning slightly forward. She was like a tensed bow, ready to let fly at the slightest provocation.

There was no provocation, this time, and when they were gone, Angel began to relax, slowly. The steel in her eyes faded away and she noticed that she had been staring at Sherlock's eyes, all the time. Abashed, she lowered her gaze. But Sherlock had seen enough. Enough to make his heart beat faster. Enough to make his breathing heavy and his chest hot.

Angel's look had been like the door of her inner self. When she had noticed the gangsters, that door had slowly begun to close. And it wasn't any door, but a heavy, thick door, made of steel and stained with blood. And when the gangsters had passed by, the door had closed completely, with an ultimate sound.

The sound of a brutal murder.

And now, more than ever, it became clear that Sherlock Holmes was powerless in the face of danger and destruction. Its echo, its sense, there, in her eyes had been like a tempting call, and all of a sudden, like a lightning bolt from a clear sky, Sherlock was struck by a compelling urge to lean over the table and kiss Angel, vehemently, on the mouth. He averted his eyes from her, feeling completely embarrassed. He had to use all his willpower not to move anywhere, but stay still and keep his face blank.

He cursed himself, inwardly. This was all getting too complicated, here! Angel was fine. She was great. Extraordinary. Beautiful. Even smart. Yes. But she was also a distraction. A serious one. Like, when was the last time he wanted to kiss someone? He didn't want to kiss anyone, for heaven's sake! And here he was, sitting in Angelo's place, feeling embarrassed like a schoolboy on his first date.

He tried to focus on something else. Like that man opposite their table. _The one with a tattoo on his arm, an old tattoo, judging by the colour and blurriness. Considering the theme, a sailing ship under full sail, he was most likely and old sailor who had sailed around the Cape Horn in his early days -_

But then, through that familiar, comfortable train of conclusions, as if his mind just couldn't get over the idea of kissing her, a dim, irrational thought occurred, and he thought that if she had punched him for that kiss, it would have been all good. And not only good, but even desirable.

To his horror, Sherlock felt his face flushing. He turned his head away from the other two and stared out of the window, at the house 22, Northumberland Street. The old memories crossed his mind: He and John running after the cap, during their first case together. He and John laughing in their flat, after the escape. He and John giggling at the crime scene... The good old times! Only two of them and everything so simple. Now, there was the third. That peculiar girl, here, with them. When, exactly, did this all happened to come about? What the hell went wrong? Because, honestly, something did go wrong somewhere, sometime, and it just couldn't go on like this. It _shouldn't_ go on like this. And It wouldn't_. _

Sherlock turned to face the other too, again. He looked at Angel. His heart jumped a little bit and something hot pressed his chest, in a not entirely unpleasant way. He inhaled and made up his mind. He would stop this all, before it was too late. After the case with the Redheads was over, he would end it, in some way or another. He let the air come out, slowly. After making the decision, he felt better and was able to flash a brief smile at Angel.


	15. Part II - Chapter 8

Chapter 8

After the pleasant dinner and many amusing observations, made by Sherlock, they stepped out from the restaurant into the crisp Spring night and walked down the quiet street. Sherlock turned his coat collar up against the bitter wind and Angel pulled the hood over her head.

"Little Black Riding Hood?" John said, smiling.

"Yeah. Hopefully not seeing Big Bad Wolf tonight." Under the easygoingness of Angel's voice, there was a serious tone. John glanced at her.

"You think they still want... to catch you?"

"Sure. The death of the Red Cap made them mad. He was a crucial part of their organisation. And I know too much."

"So, you're basically in danger all the time when you're hanging around the city, or even in your own flat?" John asked, alerted.

"Basically. Although they don't know where I live. That's the reason why I don't want you to know it, either."

"What do you mean? Surely you don't think we would tell them if they asked!" John cried.

"I really don't want to find out how much pain you can endure before telling them everything they want to know," Angel said palely. She thrust her hands in her pockets and kicked a stray, empty tin out of her way. It made a loud, rattling sound, as it rolled over and hit against the nearest wall.

John was lost for words. He glanced at Sherlock, who shot back a dark look.

"But... It's been weeks, anyway, since... you know..." John stammered.

"Since seven point fifty grams of steel pierced my father's heart?"

John swallowed. They hadn't really talked about this. About the fact that John had killed Angel's father. Her _father_, for heaven's sake... There was not much to say about it. So, he said the only thing he could:

"I'm sorry, Angel. I'm really, really sorry..."

"Don't be. It was him or me. You know it and I know it and that's that. Okay?"

John nodded.

"Forgive me," Angel said, sighing, "I shouldn't have referred to it that roughly. I didn't mean to upset you."

John reached out his hand and squeezed Angel's shoulder, gently. She turned her eyes to him and gave him a tired smile.

"Let's not ruin our lives with that miserable memory, anymore," John said quietly.

"Indeed, and John... thank you. For everything you have done for me," Angel said. She took her hand from her pocket and squeezed John's hand, on her shoulder. John jumped.

"Dear God... Are you always this cold? Your fingers are freezing! Why don't you wear gloves?"

"You don't wear gloves, either," Angel pointed out.

"Yes, but I don't need them. You obviously do!"

"I can't use gloves. I need to feel my gun."

"What? You're not holding your gun all the time!"

"I'm not. But I never know when I will be."

"Okay, but it's not good to shoot with freezing fingers, either."

"True. But I still prefer this."

John sighed and run his fingers through his hair.

"I have never met such a stubborn person as you are, Angel."

Sherlock, who silently pounded the street with his long strides, cleared his throat.

"Oh yes, on a second thought, I have."

"Are you feeling left out, Mr. Holmes?" Angel asked with a mischievous voice.

Sherlock snorted. He wanted to ask why she still called him Mr. Holmes, and he wished he could call her Miss Something but he couldn't, as he didn't know her real name. He had checked all the information about The Red Cap from the population register and the criminal records but couldn't find a trace of Angel. It was like The Red Cap had no child, at all. And what the hell he was doing, anyway, wasting his time by puzzling about somebody's name? Things had really turned upside down and it was all Angel's fault, as she messed up his head with all her doings! Indeed, when this bloody mess with the Redheads was over, he -

"Well, I better be off," Angel said, cutting off Sherlock's thoughts.

"What? No! You can't go alone now!" John cried and stopped.

"John, please, don't fuss. I have done this a hundred times before."

"Yes, but not just after two of those gangsters have seen you around."

"It wasn't the first time, John."

"Wasn't it? What do you mean?"

Angel snapped her mouth shut and looked uneasy. John stepped closer to her, eyeing her with suspicion.

"Have they... assaulted you, during these weeks?"

Angel bit her lower lip and averted her gaze, looking guilty.

"They have, haven't they? How many times, Angel?"

Angel turned her eyes to the coal-black sky, scattered with millions of small, twinkling spots of cold, distant lights.

"Answer me!" John demanded.

"A few..." Angel muttered reluctantly and lowered her gaze to the street.

"_A few_! Dear - "

"Nothing bad, really," Angel hurried to explain. "Feeble attempts. Old rancors. I didn't even need my gun. Cleary, they haven't reorganized yet."

"Well, that's bloody great, isn't it?" John almost yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "And this night you're probably going to have some more fun, what?"

"It isn't fun, John," Angel said, quietly, scraping the tarmac with the tip of her shoe.

"No, it really isn't! And you," John said, furiously, turning to Sherlock. "You knew all the time she was in danger, didn't you? Of course you did, since you always know everything! That's why you stood beside that window all those bloody weeks, staring at the street. That's why the poor homeless boy came to our door every now and then, to give you some bloody information, right? To keep you in the loop. And you didn't do anything!"

"Who said I didn't do anything?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, did you? I don't remember you leaving the flat even once!"

"I... Well... let's say that I would have known if something bad had happened."

"Something _bad_?! Isn't an assault bad enough? Jesus..." John buried his face in his hands, inhaling deeply. Angel turned her face to Sherlock and studied him closely.

"So it was you..." she said slowly. "Those anonymous blokes who appeared to be here and there, just by accident, witnessing and so far saving me from trouble... Well, thanks for that. I thought I was being tracked by some other gang. It took me hours and hours to get rid of them!"

"Yes, they said you were impossible to follow. They never found out where you live," Sherlock said with a great respect in his voice, and smiled.

"Dear God in Heaven..." John sighed and dropped his hands down. "I thought she was trying to recover from a gunshot. You said you would! You swore!"

"I _did_ recover, didn't I? I'm perfectly good now. Look, John, I _had_ to go out sometimes. To get food and other staff."

"Oh, yeah. It seems that I'm wasting my breath here, once again. Why don't we all just go and get ourselves shot once more. Since everyone is so happy to get into trouble!"

"Well, you would know that, being in Afganistan and all. If that's not getting into trouble, I don't know what is," Sherlock said calmly, eyeing John with an appraising look.

"I served my country!"

"You got shot and they kicked you out. To put it bluntly. Not much to be happy about."

John glared at him, his mouth half-open.

"Great to hear that you think so highly of me and my army career," he grunted, bitterly, at last.

Sherlock looked at him and saw a genuine hurt in John's dark-blue eyes. He winced, internally, and averted his gaze. Shifting his weight, he stammered:

"John... I... I maybe don't think very highly of the army as a whole, but I do appreciate you and your work. You aren't a captain for nothing and they don't issue those medals like morning news."

John raised his eyebrows in amazement. That was the clearest compliment he had ever heard Sherlock say to anyone. He almost blushed, and felt himself deebly touched.

"Well... thank you..."

There was a baffled silence until Angel cleared her throat.

"Well, see you later, then."

"What? No! Angel, please don't go..."

"John, don't be ridicilous... My life has always been like this. I'm used to it."

"No one should be used to the idea of getting hunted like an animal," John said quietly.

"Oh, you never called me an animal before. What animal would that be? A batgirl, perhaps?"

"Very funny."

"And I do have one advantage."

"Which is?"

"They want me alive."

John looked at her, speechless. He didn't want to know what possible meanings were buried behind that answer. He really didn't... he _couldn't_ think about it. He turned to Sherlock.

"You tell her. She can't go alone. It's too dangerous!"

"She is an adult, John. She can do what she wants to."

"Damn you..."

John was getting really desperate. He didn't want Angel to disappear, alone, into those dark streets, going God only knew where. And why didn't Sherlock do anything to stop her? Yet, wasn't it always like this? He himself trying to make some sense and Sherlock messing everything up. And now there was Angel, another bloody Sherlock! John felt his shoulder tightening and the pain sneaking into his leg, as always when he got really worried. He raised his hands and gave up.

"All right. Fine. You do what you want but, _please_, be careful."

"Don't be cross with me, John," Angel pleased. "You can't protect me forever. There'll always be the next time and the next danger. I'm safe as long as I'm meant to be."

John couldn't really understand what she signified by saying 'safe', nor by saying 'as long as meant to be', but he let it be. He just nodded. And off, into the night, she disappeared.


	16. Part II - Chapter 9

Chapter 9

After less than two minutes they heard a gunshot. It was Angel's gun.

"Bloody hell... Fucking _bloody_ hell..." John muttered, as he spun around and broke into a run. He had taken only a few steps when Sherlock dashed past, his coat flapping behind him as he flew along the street, his feet barely touching the ground. John had never seen him run so fast, and bloody fast it was, as he reached the corner and was gone, before John was even halfway. John swore. He hadn't brought his gun with him, since he hadn't had any idea of anything, as usual. So, he just ran, gasping in the cold air, tasting the blood and steel in his mouth.

He reached yet another corner and there they were, at the end of a narrow street. Six, seven men? Eight? Some of them were already on the ground. John saw Angel's black coat whirling as she squatted and swept the ground with her leg. A man flew heavily onto his back and hit his head with a cracking sound. Angel was already up and the leg made another, almost unvisible sweep, high in the air, hitting another man to his face. Then Sherlock dashed on the scene and threw a gruesome hook to the nearest man's jaw. The man groaned and fell down. He didn't get up.

When John crashed into a sturdy man and brought him to the ground, he smiled. He tried not to, but he did, and after hitting the man fiercely on the back of his head he scrambled up and, fleetingly, met Sherlock's eyes. The tall detective smirked, lopsidedly, while bending his head slightly to dodge a punch. Then he actually gave _a wink_ at John, before throwing a strong hook to the assailant's stomach.

It was over after two minutes. Six men was lying in the street, bleeding. Two was running and stumbling off, like their tails were on fire. Angel hurried to a man who was lying on his face. She heaved him over and grabbed her gun.

"Bloody idiot of a bitch," she muttered and restrained herself from kicking the man to the head. She placed the gun in the holster and wiped her face. Her nose was bleeding. "Well..." she said slowly. "That wasn't very good. Maybe I'm getting old or something but -"

"How old are you?" Sherlock cut her off. He didn't really mean to ask anything like that but words just popped out of his mouth. Angel looked at him, mildly surprised.

"I... I don't know..." she stammered.

"You don't know," John said, blankly. "How can you not know?"

"I don't know how I don't know that I don't know," Angel said, smiling oddly.

"My brain hurts," John said. "What about your birth certificate, then? You could check there."

"I don't have one," Angel said briefly.

"You weren't registered? Do you mean..."

"I mean, that I don't know where I was born and when, and I don't even want to know."

"But... you can't live... I mean, you have to have the NHS number or some kind of official documents or... I don't know, something!" John said, almost desperately.

"Basically, John, I was never born and, basically, I never lived. And, when considering all that, we end up with a very pleasant conclusion that, basically, I can never die."

Angel gave them a quirky smile but something in her eyes showed that things were not quite that simple in her mind. John stared at her and then turned his head away, a pained look on his face. "I... I'll call the ambulance..." he said, quietly. "Luckily no one got shot, this time."

Sherlock stared at Angel, who stared back, a defiant look in her eyes. So, that's why he didn't find anything about her from the records; because she wasn't there. She was nowhere, as if she, really, didn't exist at all. Sherlock wondered, vaguely, how it might feel; to live a life that wasn't... well... that just was not. Being nobody. He wondered if she really had a name at all. But then, surely her mother had given her a name, hadn't she?

Angel pulled the hood over her head, wiped her bleeding nose, fiercely, and thrust her hands inside her pockets. Her face had turned stony. Sherlock shifted his weight and looked at her. She seemed so small and lonely, yet tough. Like she would never bend no matter what happened to her. But then, something in her eyes, behind that hard surface... Well... he really didn't want to think about it. So he asked instead:

"What happened with those guys?"

"I don't know..." Angel huffed. "One of them jumped from the shadows, straight onto my back and stole my gun before I got a good grip and... I didn't hear anything... I was just... the stars..."

"Do you mean you were looking at the stars and dreaming, when you were meant to be careful?" John asked, tiredly, putting his phone back into his pocket. "They will be here soon."

"You can't deny it's amazing, the Universe. Despite all the pitylessness and vileness down here," Angel said quietly.

They all looked up, and the sky really was gorgeous tonight. Immense and distant and starry, as if a huge glass vase had shattered into a million pieces along that endless, black, silken cloth of the Universe.

"Well," Angel said and lowered her gaze. "Thanks for coming. You needn't have bothered, but - "

"Needn't have _bothered_," Sherlock cut her off, acerbically. "Don't you sometimes think a little bit too much of yourself?"

"I know exactly what to think of myself, Mr. Holmes," Angel said. "I have played this game often enough."

"A game. You're calling this _a_ _game_? God help me..." John huffed.

"What else is it, other than a game, John? Or do you prefer to call it a life, instead? You just said no one should get used to being hunted like an animal. So, this is a game and life is... well, something else."

_Something you poor thing never had_, John thought to himself. He drew a deep breath and then, just purely out of curiousity, he asked:

"How many men do they need, then, to catch you?"

Angel shrugged her shoulders. "It really depens on the environment. In a small room four would do, but if there's a lot of space to run around, walls to climb over or narrow alleys and gateways to hide in, I have the upper hand, no matter if there's five or fifteen of them. Not to mension the most crucial fact, of course, that they are not allowed to kill me, or to hurt me badly. Well... I'm not sure about that hurting-thing anymore, now when, you know... But the killing still holds its place, as we can all see. And I, instead, _I_ can do whatever I need to get rid of them. If there's no other way I will kill, and they know it. Though, I try to avoid that, as far as..." Angel's voice trailed off and she shrugged again.

John nodded. In some macabre way, it made sense.

"Sometimes, when I was younger" Angel continued, as if the words couldn't stop coming now, once she had opened her mouth, "I sometimes got sick of obeying The Red Cap's orders and just refused. On those occasions he used to send a strong man into my room, to take me with him and to force me to do what I was supposed to. As time went on, he had to send more men at once, until he came up with the idea that it was a great way of entertaining everyone. I was dragged to the arena like some bloody gladiator. If I managed to win the battle, I didn't have to do what he had told me to do. If I lost, well, sometimes I didn't have to do it either, if I was... if I wasn't..." Her voice trailed off again. She shuddered slightly and a lost look came into her eyes. She stayed still for a moment and then shook her head, sharply.

"Well, anyway, that's how I have learnt all this. It was like a battle between me and my... _father_. He saw me getting better and better. He knew I'd fly away again and again, until he couldn't catch me anymore, without killing me. And maybe..." Angel paused for a moment, thinking, as if some surprising thought had popped into her head. "Maybe that was what he wanted to happen, after all. He knew exactly how dangerous I was, with all my knowledge about him and the Gang and everything, yet he still didn't kill me, even when I came to know you."

"He was going to shoot you there, in the alley," Sherlock said briefly.

"Was he?" Angel asked and turned her face to Sherlock, almost a begging look in her eyes. "Or did he just do it because he knew that you would shoot _him_? So that I didn't need to, because he knew I couldn't."

There was a long silence in the street. No one dared to say a word. And no one happened to notice, that there was someone else listening in that silence, too. Someone, who was hidden behind a tiny camera, which was placed on the corner of one house. It's glass-eye was heartlessly monitoring the view and showing it to a pale man, equally heartless, miles away. And the man was smiling, coldly and knowledgeable, like a man who had made an important decicion.

The silence in the street stretched on. John didn't know what to do. He wanted to go and hug Angel. He wanted to tell her it was all right. That everything was all right. But it would have been a terrible lie. His heart ached, seeing her so lonely and lost, in a big world which had treated her so roughly. His heart ached, knowing what Angel meant by her words, knowing what she hoped, deep inside. What every single child hopes, in this world. That their parents do care about them, after all. That they are being loved, even if all the facts spoke otherwise. John knew, in his heart, how unbelieavable strong that hope was, as it carried over hundreds and hundreds of blows and abandonments, never really giving in, even the thinnest hope.

Sherlock, instead, couldn't cope with the look in Angel's eyes. He turned away and busied himself with examining the pockets of the men, lying there in the street. Yet he didn't see much through the tears that misted his eyes. There was that pressing feeling in his chest again, the burning in his throat, and he cursed in his head. He hated, oh God how much he _hated_ this kind of situations! He hated the feeling of caring inside him, and the fact, that he couldn't ignore it anymore, like he had been able to do before.

Before John.

Before Angel.

He hated knowing that he should do something else rather than pickpocket some bloody unconscious bastards, here! He should say something to Angel. He should try to comfort her. He _wanted_ to comfort her. He wanted to wipe that desperate look away from her eyes, but he didn't know how. Yet, what he hated most, after all, was himself for not even trying. And never in his life had he been more relieved to hear the sound of an ambulance.


	17. Part II - Chapter 10

Chapter 10

After everything was sorted with the emergency team and Sherlock had called to advice Lestrade that they would drop by tomorrow, they parted for a second time that night. After John, naturally, had weakly tried to suggest they would escort Angel to her flat. And after Angel, naturally, had refused, explaining that two attacs in one night was statistically impossible. And after Sherlock, naturally, had concurred with what Angel said. So, John and Sherlock walked back to Baker Street, up the seventeen stairs into their living room and stopped in their tracks.

Somebody had been there. Books and papers were all over the floor. The sofa had been moved and the carpet was wrinkled. They checked, quickly, over the other rooms but they were untouched. It looked like somebody had been searching for something and, obviously, found it in the living room. Sherlock frowned. He couldn't see anything missing, at first glance. He decided to make a more detailed inspection, later.

John sighed, heavily, and walked to the kitchen for some red wine. He had to admit he was doing that more often now, when Angel was around. Sherlock pushed the sofa back, next to the wall, threw his lanky body onto it and picked up his phone. He sent a message to Angel.

_Do you know anything about this? - SH_

An answer came, after a while:

_I'd obviously be more certain whether I knew anything about it or not, if I'd have been told what it was, that I probably should have known something about. - Angel_

_Is there any more complicated way to ask: ABOUT WHAT? - SH_

_Yes. Do you want to hear it? - Angel_

_No. - SH_

_Then stop asking ridiculous questions. - Angel_

_It wasn't ridiculous! If you'd have cared to use your minuscule (that means more or less the same than nonexistent or negligible, in case you didn't know) brain, you'd have figured out that it, obviously, had something to do with our flat (at Baker Street 221b), since we left you ten (10) minutes ago, which is the time we need to walk from there (where we left you) here (to Baker Street, 221b). - SH_

_I'm greatly aware that you're in your flat, since I saw you going there. Yet, judging by your carefully detailed message, the thing that I should have known something about wasn't that important, after all. Or if important, not by any means a state of emergency (= a condition of URGENT NEED for action or assistance) that it couldn't have waited until tomorrow. So what's wrong with your flat? Have you lost your pyjamas? Can't you find your bedtime teddy or what is it? I can come in if you want me to. I'm still nearby. - Angel_

_Did you follow us? - SH_

_Oh, that's an interesting question, really. Wouldn't you call it a tiny bit obvious, too, after what I just told you? -Angel_

_WHY, for heaven's sake!? - SH_

_Because you were not statistically safe. -Angel_

Sherlock stared at his phone. He was abashed and surprised and ashamed and touched and irritated, all at the same time, and it almost made him mad. What the _hell_ was going on in that head of hers? She followed two grown-up men to secure their way. She followed _him_, _Sherlock Holmes_, and his friend, bloody army-doctor John Watson. _A girl_. And... and... and he didn't notice her. HE DIDN'T BLOODY NOTICE HER!

He inhaled deeply and held his breath for so long that his face turned pink. Then he let the air out, slowly. The shame and irritation grew in his chest. He wasn't quite sure where that shame came from and he just ignored it, because it really wasn't a feeling he was used to, nor one he wanted to feel just now. Or ever, for that matter. So he focused on the one he knew more than well: the irritation. His fingers started to fly over the phone keys, sending a bitter answer:

_Your behavior makes one think the dog-thing wasn't that far from the truth, after all. If I ever want a dog, I'll clone one. And, just to let you know, I don't want a dog. I don't like dogs. Actually I hate dogs! - SH_

_I'm glad that you appriciate my care. John didn't have his gun, that's why I wanted to see you get safely home. You don't know these people like I do, so don't start teaching me how I should behave when it's about them. You might be the cleverest man in the earth, Mr. Holmes, but sometimes you're a bloody idiot. - Angel_

The wave of humiliation made Sherlock's face hot. Was it really _him_ who was teaching here, what? It bloody hell wasn't! He'd just said he didn't need babysitting! _She_ didn't know what kind of people _he_ had dealt with, during his life, and yet, he was still alive. Take Moriarty, for example. There had been a man to be worried about. Not some pitiful gangsters! He decided to make that clear.

_I don't give a shit about your gangsters and I can most definitely watch my own back, since I'm still alive even after facing a man called Moriarty! - SH _

At this point Sherlock started to feel, that he acted like a child who was boasting to his mates that his dad was stronger than their dads. The image made him even more angry, and he was finding it infuriating to lie on this stupid sofa, anymore. But since he didn't want John to notice anything and to ask idiotic questions, he forced himself to stay where he was. His phone chimed.

_Don't - EVER - again call them 'my gangsters' if you don't want to make a closer acquaintance with my gun. And about Jim, I know him well enough. No need to boast there. - Angel _

Sherlock grumbled loudly and sat up abruptly. His head grew hot inside and his breathing became heavy. Now, she was skating on thin ice, here! Seeing the word '_boast_' written right in front of his face was far too much for Sherlock Holmes, no matter that he had just thought it himself. Infact, especially because of that! And he couldn't help but remember that night in the cab, staring at that tormenting Sir-Boast-A-Lot-video. And all that had happened afterwards. All that he and John had gone through, after his faked suicide. A suffocating anger swelled inside his chest. His long fingers were just a blurr of pale skin and bone, as they fiercely drummed over the keyes. The message was sent by a frenetic stab of the send-button.

_Referring to your previous message: by any means, come in, please. I always wanted to find out what happens when somebody is forced to drink a pint of human blood. - SH_

There was no answer for that one. John came from the kitchen a glass in his hand.

"What happened?" he asked. "Is there some problem?"

Sherlock glared at him. For heaven's sake there was a problem! There was a fucking big problem and her name was Angel! Or actually there was no problem at all, since the girl wasn't actually ever born! Great. That made things so bloody much easier, didn't it?

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. He jumped to his feet and started to pace around the room, over the torn papers and books, which fluttered aside, out of his path. That girl was absolutely the most _infuriating_ human being he had ever met! Why she always had to mouth off and why she never did as she was asked? And why did she never give up in a quarrel, before it was too late? Yet, when he most of all wanted an answer, she didn't give any!

And the phone remained mute.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock roared and threw his phone to the kitchen wall with one furious movement. But even though it was iPhone, it just bounced off the wall with a loud crack and fell to the floor, right at John's feet, annoyingly unharmed.

John picked it up and started to flip through the messages, frowning. Sherlock didn't bother to stop him, but just shot him an enraged side-glance. He was almost running around the room, ruffling his dark curls and dimly beginning to realise, that there was a sense of_ 'a bit not good'_ in the air, again. It ramped his anger up another notch.

John stared at Sherlock's last message, horror and disbelief in his eyes._ Forced to drink a pint of human blood?_ Now, this was bad... This really was bad, this, here. How _dare_ he to speak to her like that! Especially after what they had heard in the street! How utterly stupid and _unfeeling_ that man could be? John slowly lifted his gaze to look at his flatmate, whose rage had grown so huge, that John didn't remember ever seen him like that. Sherlock's cheekbones had a reddish glow but his compressed lips were almost white and brows drawn down over his flashing eyes. His dark hair jutted out in every direction.

John saw, well enough, that it was no time to talk to Sherlock Holmes. So he held himself and his growing anger back and made another move, writing a short message on Sherlock's phone.

_Angel, it's John. Is everything all right?_

And sent it. There was no answer. John took his own phone and sent another text.

_It's really me, Angel. Are you okay?!_

After a while the answer came and it made John swallow, once. And twice. It made his stomach turn over and his forehead break out in a sweat

_You can tell Mr. Holmes that it makes you vomit until there's nothing left in your stomach. You are unable to eat for two days and when you finally try, you can't help but remember the blood again and throw up everything you just managed to get in. Can't really remember how long it takes to get over. But, if Mr. Holmes wants to experience something that gives him everlasting memories, I can vouch for this one. - Angel_

John handed his phone to Sherlock, his hand shaking slightly. Sherlock stopped storming around and read the answer. His face went blank. All the colour faded away from his cheeks and he was completely white. He stared at the phone and swallowed. He read the message again. And swallowed again. He didn't move. He refused to meet John's eyes. He refused to do anything. He just stood there, in the middle of the living room, holding John's phone and staring at it.

And John, wise man that he was, gave a deep, deep sigh. As much as he wanted to grab Sherlock by the collar and scream in his face how stupid he was, and as much as he wanted to go to Angel and comfort her, he didn't do anything like that but said:

"You have to figure this out by yourself, Sherlock. When it's about you and her, I'm totally powerless." And he went to the stairs and stopped once more, looking at Sherlock. His words were full of disappointment as he said: "Shame on you, man."

And he left Sherlock alone, staring at the terrifying little letters on John's phone and having feelings he hadn't known even existed.


	18. Part II - Chapter 11

Chapter 11

In many ways, it was one of the most terrifying yet illuminating night in Sherlock Holmes' life. John's last words haunted him for hours to come and his face kept heating up with shame. The disappointment in John's voice had been horrible. His words had been unbearable. Mostly, because they were true. He should never have said those things to Angel. Even if he didn't know that she had been forced to...

Had she really been? It was somehow a very captivating thought...

No. It was not. It was 'a-lot-not-good' thought. John knew these things, surely enough.

But totally scientifically -

No. Not in _any_ way.

And yet, even if he didn't know _that_ thing, he had known enough. And still, he had done it. Because he knew it would hurt her. He had wanted to hurt her. He didn't know any other way of coping with... these feelings, this caring... He had been so angry with himself there, in the street. And when he was angry with himself, he started to insult others in order to make them suffer, too. And then she had followed them to see if they were in safe. It was humiliating, because he knew that _he_ should have followed her, not the other way round. And he hadn't done it. That was what the shame was about, now he saw it quite clearly.

And why hadn't he followed her? Because he didn't want to admit that she meant something to him. That he actually _cared_ if she was safe or not. He didn't want John to know. He didn't want to know it even himself, for god's sake! And besides, somehow, he wanted her to get in danger. Because she could fight her way through it and the idea of that made Sherlock feel very hot inside.

She was so confusing... Sometimes it was like there was two Johns in the room, when those two were smiling together, their blond hair glimmering in the sunlight and their blue eyes twinkling warmly. Sometimes it was like there was two of himself, instead, debating about some details or teasing each other. At times, he forgot she was a girl at all. Or, rather, a woman. At times... he noticed it far too clearly. Suddenly, he remembered what it had been like, to look into her eyes for the first time. He remembered that dark, heavy dusk and those amorphous shadows floating around. He remembered the odd feeling that his footsteps were stumbling, even if the ground was solid. Now, the stumbling feeling was here again. Like the ground was moving and swaying under his feet.

He inhaled and sat down in his armchair. He considered picking up his violin and play. He considered going out and just forgetting about everything. He considered making a cup of tea or doing some experiments. But then, he knew none of these distractions would really work. The basic truth was, that he had pushed things too far and fucked up everything, and that he didn't know how to figure it out, because John hadn't told him. Not this time. Not when it was about her, about Angel.

That _infuriating_ little -

What? A killer?

No, not a killer. It was self-defence. But still, she _had killed_ _four_ _men, _with her gun. And how many had she beaten in fights?

Sweet...

_Sweet?_ Yes, sweet...

And terrifying and awesome.

Alluring and dangerous.

And when she was around with her golder hair, it was like the sun was shining...

The fragrant sun...

Jesus...what the _hell _he was doing here again, thinking about her hair! Thinking and thinking and not moving on. Unable to push her away from his mind, from his heart. Little by little realising, to his ultimate horror, that he didn't even _want_ to push her away. Whatever she said, whatever she did, he didn't want her to go.

It was terrible.

And it was beautiful.

Yet he wasn't sure how he would cope with it.

He wasn't sure if he even _wanted_ to cope with it.

He didn't know. He really didn't. All he knew was that sentiment was supposed to be for the weak, for ordinary people who couldn't do without it. Who needed someone to care about, someone, who would care about them. He shouldn't need that kind of thing. He was Sherlock Holmes, the-world's-only-consultive-detective-with-no-hear t.

'_But_ _we both know that's not quite true'_, said an awfully familiar voice in his head.

Sherlock quivered. He hated-hated-_hated_ to admit it but, Moriarty had been right. Sherlock had learnt that lesson well enough, there at the pool. And after that, on the roof of St. Bart's. Every now and then, he forgot, and most of the time he pretented he had forgotten but the truth was that the heart was there. That John had revived it by coming into his life, and there was no way back. He had been able to keep his sentiments under control, though. He had focused on John. He cared about John, a lot. He didn't care about anyone else. Well, maybe a tiny bit about Lestrade and Molly and, of course, Mrs. Hudson, but it didn't count. He had been doing fine, so far.

Now, he was slipping. He cared about Angel, too. A lot. Too much. And what next? Did he start to care about people, one after another, until he couldn't work anymore because he was too _concerned_ about everyone?

No. It couldn't be like that. He could _never_ care about ordinary people. Stupid people, huffing and buffing around like brainless puppets. He must be mad to even consider such a possibility! But still, it had happened with Angel, just like that, without him noticing anything, until it was too late. Though, Angel was not ordinary. But what if there were other people, too, who wasn't ordinary? Who weren't boring. Like John and Angel.

Being cold and distant was just so easy and comfortable. It was maybe lonely and somehow sad, but it was easy, simple. This wasn't easy, this caring. It was terrible. It made him feel sick in his stomach. He didn't want to care about anyone. He didn't-didn't-didn't want to care! Caring was stupid! It was pitiful. Pathetic. Sentimental.

He, Sherlock Holmes, was _sentimental_.

He was _weak..._

His stomach was hurting. Or was it his chest? There was pain somewhere in his body.

Everywhere.

Sherlock felt something warm on his cheeks. He wiped his face and realised that his eyes were wet with tears. He stared at his hand in shock. He saw his fingers glitter in the light of the fire. He felt tears pouring from his eyes and running down his face. And, suddenly, he was awfully aware of that pressing feeling and burning in his throat. He panicked and jumped to his feet from the armchair. He ran into his bedroom and slammed the door shut.

John shouldn't see this. John shouldn't know this. No one should.

He tried to hold himself back. He tried to force the tears back. With the pure, unbelievable power of his mind, he tried to calm down and push away the pain, failing miserably. He sank onto his bed and buried his face in the pillow. And for the first time in years, Sherlock Holmes cried aloud.

He cried because of Angel. Because of all the pain she had been through in her life and because he, himself, had caused her even more pain. He cried because of John's words and because of the shame he felt. But most of all, he cried because of himself. For being such a failure of a man, who couldn't do properly the only thing in the world he was good at. He cried because of the pure horror that he, Sherlock Holmes, had found himself _on the losing side_.

That cold, hard, razor-sharp detective-machine was gone, forever. Replaced with a sentimental softy, who cried on his bed like a small, lonely boy, after his father had given him an earful.

It was much later that he calmed down. He was lying on his bed, listening his heart beating. Tasting the salt in his mouth. Feeling totally idiotic and empty, yet also somehow lighter and even happier. Maybe crying wasn't so bad a thing to do, after all. Sometimes. Once or twice in a lifetime.

He carefully stood up and walked to the toilet to wash his face. The cold water felt wonderful against his hot cheeks and swollen eyes. He refused to look in the mirror. He walked back into his room and picked up his phone. He hesitated. He still didn't know what to do about Angel but he only knew he must do something. That he must sort it out, somehow. He didn't even try to harden his heart, to leave things as they were. To leave Angel for good. It wouldn't work. He didn't _want_ it to work. That much he had accepted. He tried not to think about her right now, being somewhere alone, thinking about his words, going through her tormented memories. But he couldn't help it. He saw her in his mind's eye and the sight made his heart hurt.

How easy it had been to say to John the day they had met Angel: '_If you don't dare to think about all she has been through, then don't._' He couldn't do that anymore. He couldn't just ignore. And as much as he hated that feeling, it also felt good. Bitter but good. It was like he had become... warmer, inside. Like he was _larger_ than before. Not outwardly, but inwardly.

This was all so confusing...

And it didn't bring him any closer to what he should do about Angel. He couldn't just call her, because he didn't know what to say. So he tried to text. He wrote the same words over and over again, in different order:

_I'm sorry, forgive me. - SH_

_I shouldn't have said that. Forgive me. - SH_

_Please, forgive me. I'm so sorry. - SH_

But he didn't send them because, none of them really worked. None of them was enough. None of them sounded... like him. So he did the only thing he could. The only thing that suddenly crashed into his brilliant, mad mind and seemed acceptable enough. And it definitely was an idea that only Sherock Holmes was cabable of having and cabable of doing.


	19. Part II - Chapter 12

Chapter 12

When Angel came next morning, she didn't smile. It was the first time she hadn't and it made the atmosphere in the room cold and awkward. Her eyes were hard and glinting, like two carefully cut sapphires.

John, who was eating breakfast, glanced at Sherlock, who was sitting in his armchair beside the fireplace, doing nothing but looking extremely pale and worn out. John didn't really know why but he reckoned it had something to do with that bloody mess yesterday. He hadn't asked anything about it, though, and Sherlock hadn't told. As a matter of fact, they hadn't exchanged a word since last night.

His eyes were full of anxiety, as he lowered his gaze to his teacup. He had washed his hands of this. Sherlock had to learn to repair his own damage, where Angel was concerned. John couldn't, and wouldn't, stand between those two as a barricade or some kind of courier, running from one to the other, carrying insulting notes and clumsy apologies.

Sherlock cleared his throat and, when he spoke, his voice was low and raspy.

"You were quite right with your description, so far... Can't tell yet if it really takes two days to be able to eat again but - " He suddenly shut his mouth and swallowed, as if something had striven to escape from his throat and he had to force it back. He waited for a moment and opened his mouth again, tentatively. Just enough to get the words out; "...but I'll let you know." Then he carefully shut his mouth again, compressing his lips almost white.

The silence crystallized. Angel stared at Sherlock with widening eyes. Then the frozen air exploded to brilliant shards, as she bursted out laughing, hysterically. She laughed and laughed, until tears ran down her cheeks. Sherlock smiled weakly, his lips still firmly compressed together. John just stared at them, as if his brain had became numb and he had lost his ability to think or talk or, well, do anything at all.

Angel tottered to the sofa and sat down heavily, still giggling, wiping her eyes and panting. Sherlock followed her with his eyes, clearly relieved, but unwilling to move his body any more than was necessary. His stomach was hurting, grievously, after his night-time experiences. Finally, John got his voice back. It quivered, when he said:

"In this bizarre reality we three are living in, that must be the most ultimate and most morbid way of apologizing." He paused for a moment, shocked, and utmost desperation crept into his voice: "I _beg_ you two_ in the name of Almighty_ not to insult each other anymore, before we are faced with something that my distressed mind cannot process, anymore."

"You're insane," Angel said to Sherlock, grinning broadly. "Where did you even _get_ a pint of blood in the middle of the night!?"

"From the freezer, apparently," John said, gloomily. "He always keeps some of his blood there, just in case. Case like these, you know, when a sudden lunacy strikes that clever head and he fancies playing vampires, all by himself, in the middle of the night."

Angel sniggered and shook her head.

"This is sick," she said and wiped her face. "Did you warm it up in a microwave?" She burst out laughing again when Sherlock gave a small nod, the light of amusement dawning in his exhausted eyes.

John pushed away his tea and toast, a nauseated look on his face.

"Can I really believe this?" he muttered under his breath. "At least you cleaned up the toilet," he raised up his voice, slightly relieved.

"The shower," was the short, quiet answer.

John turned his head to watch his flatmate carefully.

"Do you mean...? Oh, you _do_ mean..." John sighed, leaned over the table and buried his face in his arms.

"What does he mean?" Angel asked, curiously.

"He means that he vomited the human blood all over the bathroom and that it is, obviously, still there," was the muffled sigh from the middle of the jumper.

Angel looked at John's miserable shape and her eyes softened.

"Don't worry, John, I'll clean it for you, right away."

"For me?" John asked, amazed, lifting his head and eyeing at Angel.

"For you, who else?" she asked, smiling almost tenderly. "Or do you really think our vampire would do it himself? In that condition?"

"No, not really," John sighed.

Angel looked at Sherlock for a while, a smile rippling on her lips but her eyes more serious, questioning. Sherlock stared back, emotions rapidly changing on his face. That was extremely unusual, John thought to himself, yet he quickly realised he was doing it on purpose, because for Sherlock Holmes it was, besides his actions and the violin, his only way of showing his emotions.

First of all, there was a clear apology, which Angel accepted nodding slightly. Then there were glimpses of amusement and suffering and even victory, because of the blood-drinking. And then something darker and intimate, that made John look away. Yet, he had seen enough to know that finally, _finally,_ Sherlock had understood something. Maybe not all of it, but something, and that was a good start.

Angel blinked and turned away, and off she went into the bathroom and cleaned it up quickly, effectively and thoroughly. And when she came back, it was like she had just dropped by for a chat, not like she had been cleaning a gory shower.

"May I?" she asked, glancing the table and the tea. "Cleaning always makes me hungry."

John waved his hand approvingly.

"Obviously, you don't clean much, then," he smiled weakly.

"Obviously. Cleaning is boring. It makes me almost sick to think that I'm wasting my life on something so tedious."

"I was going to thank you but I'm not sure if that's enough, now, after hearing how much you hated it," John said, haltingly.

Angel grinned and poured herself a cup of tea. She took a piece of toast and put some strawberry jam on it.

"It was our quarrel and had nothing to do with you. Why should you suffer from stray bullets or feel sorry for anything?"

"Why, indeed," John sighed and glanced at Sherlock.

He was staring at Angel. An almost adoring flash in Sherlock's eyes made John's throat tighten suddenly and an odd feeling filled his chest. Something he hadn't experienced for years. Something that he really, _really,_ wouldn't have expected to feel here, in this flat, with these two. Ever. He turned away and went to the kitchen. He stood there for a while and studied himself, as only a wise man was able to do.

Was it really so, that the flash in Sherlock's eyes had hurt him?

Was it really so, that he was _jealous,_ when that look was addressed to someone other than himself?

And was it really so, that after all, after everything he knew about himself and his sexual orientation, he was_ somehow in love with Sherlock Holmes_?

He pursed his lips and inhaled deeply. He really couldn't be this stupid, could he? To envy something that those two had and that they both so desperately needed? And even if there never had been Angel, there never would have been anything more between Sherlock and himself, but a friendship. As extraordinary and deep as it was, it would never be a sexual relationship of any kind.

So, why was he jealous?

The answer struck him, making his knees weak. Because he feared. He feared that Angel would take his place in Sherlock's heart. After all, there was much in common between himself and Angel, wasn't there? They were both some kind of soldier with a gun, they were both blond and small and tough. They both followed Sherlock, wherever he decided to go and however crazy were the things he wanted to do. But John was a man and Angel was a woman. And if Sherlock... If he wasn't gay... if he fell totally in love. Then, would there be room for John Watson in his life, anymore?

It was a possibility John didn't even dare to think about. Because, if that happened, it would be the end of his life. It had almost been, when Sherlock had jumped off the roof. Those years after the Fall, those horrible, exhausting, miserable years, when John had stood, tens of times, a gun in his hand, pointed at his head. How much he had wanted to let it go. To shoot the pain and all the memories of Sherlock out of his head. To shoot that abysmal longing out of his heart and feel the peace, at last.

He turned around and looked at Sherlock, who was now looking at him from the other end of the flat, clearly knowing what John was thinking about. The rising dawn behind the windows lit up the room and made Sherock's curly hair shimmer like gold. His pale, marble-carved face, and the feverish shine in his eyes made him look inhuman and almost divine. Yet, _divine_ was not quite the word to describe the man that had just spent his night drinking and vomiting human blood. So, _devilish_ it was, then? But that wasn't the word either. There was no other way of describing someone who varied from celestial divinity to infernal demon, but to use his name: Sherlock Holmes.

And just by looking at Sherlock's eyes, John suddenly knew that he had no reason at all to be jealous or fearful. He knew that there never would be anyone to take his place in Sherlock's life. He was not in danger, nor would he ever be, because that man loved John as much as John loved him. And if Sherlock one day loved Angel, too, there was surely enough love for both of them in Sherlock's heart.

_He is like a star,_ John thought, dimly. His _love_ is like a star. It shines over his elected bright and dazzling, from the depth of the universe. And, like all stars, if you get close enough, it appears to be no more, no less, than the burning and blinding sun itself.

Angel looked up, placing the spoon back into the jam jar. Her voice broke the magic. Sherlock averted his eyes and John walked, slowly, back into the living room. Angel's tone was serious.

"That blood drinking brought something into my mind last night. About Paleface. I - " She paused for a moment, hesitating, looking at John somewhat sadly. Then she took a deep breath and continued: "I had almost forgotten it all, you know. It's been so long, ten years or something and I really don't wish to remember... Anyway, it was the first time I tried to run away. I get caught after only two days and The Red Cap was furious. He battered me and forced me to drink my own blood. He said that if I ever try to run away again, he'll make me drink myself dry. I was vomiting the blood when some man came into the room. I wasn't really interested in anyone at that moment, so I didn't pay attention. But I remember him asking what was going on, and The Red Cap explaining, calling him Paleface. And I remember him coming to my side and bending down. And I vomited again and some of the blood dripped on his pale face._ Three drops of blood fell upon the snow, _I remember myself thinking... And he smiled, there, in front of me and his eyes were almost black..."

Angel lifted her eyes and looked at Sherlock.

"It was him. Moriarty."

Silence descended over the room like an enormous shadow. The light of the morning seemed to suffocate and quiver with fear.

Somewhere, deep inside Sherlock's mind and soul, a dormant beast raised its head. The pain in his stomach grew almost unbearable. Something red dawned on the edge of his sight. He felt the sickening taste of blood in his mouth again. He smelled its gross, cloying stink of iron and his stomach spasmed. He bent forward and struggled to keep his face still.

_Three drops of blood fell upon the snow._ Upon the _face_. _His_ face. There, on the roof.

But he was dead.

_Moriarty was dead! _

He _shot_ himself!

He had _seen_ his dead eyes, staring nowhere.

Yet... he never checked his pulse. He didn't dare. He wanted... he wanted so badly for him to be gone forever! But was he not?

And the nightmare was there again. More painful and darker as ever it pressed itself against that tall, now ghostly pale, man. It pressed itself against famous, brilliant, inhumanly clever Sherlock Holmes, seizing all the air and shelter around him and leaving nothing but fear instead. And that fear had a strong taste of blood.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, ignoring his spasming stomach, ignoring the harrowing pain, forcing himself to sit straight and not to shake or moan or wince but to stay still, as a marble statue. And he said with a steady voice:

"He was supposed to be dead. I saw him kill himself."

"When?"

"Nearly four years ago." _1395 days_, he thought to himself.

"Then he is not dead. I've seen him after that. Once, in Finland."

There was not much to be said about that.

Not much, indeed.

To be frank: nothing at all.


	20. Part II - Chapter 13

**Author's Note: The verse quoted in this chapter is from Henry Longfellow's poem Excelsior.**

* * *

Chapter 13

The item that had been stolen the previous day from the flat was John's Sig Sauer. It had been sent to Lestrade in a small box, wrapped in pink paper and tied with a golden string. Along with the gun there was a note:

_John Watson's beauty. Justice for all. Angels involved._

Lestrade was not pleased. John was asked to come in for questioning.

"For heaven's sake, John, how could you keep this all from me, after everything we have been through together?" Lestrade huffed.

John could see a genuine hurt in Lestrade's eyes. It made him swallow.

"I'm really sorry, Greg," he said quietly. "I needed that gun. You know I did. All those killings... it was in self-defence, or defencing Sherlock or Angel. I would never kill anyone if I wasn't forced to."

"I know that. But you should have told me! Killing the Red Cap and all, you could have just told me, that's all!"

"Well, you know now, and what good will that do?"

"Bloody hell..." Lestrade buried his face in his hands. John felt a sudden twist in his heart.

When did the DI actually get that old? His hair looked very grey and John could see his hands shaking slightly, as he rubbed his face. Lestrade dropped his hands down and looked at John, sighing.

"This is an illegal gun, John, goddammit... The mandatory minimum sentence for this kind of offense is five years' imprisonment. _Five years!_ And add to that all those killings that you didn't tell me about. It's... It's a fucking mess! I can't just... ignore this!"

"I know."

"So, what am I suppose to do, then? Put you in the jail until this is sorted out?"

"Yes, if that's what is needed," John said firmly.

"Sod it... Do you think I should call Mycroft? Maybe he could work something out."

"I'm sure he already knows," John said, rather prickly.

"And what is _'Angels involved'_ supposed to mean, anyway?" Lestrade asked, frowning. "I really hope it doesn't mean that Angel has an illegal gun, too. I really hope it doesn't mean that she is the mystery killer, who is now supposed to be in South America!"

John didn't respond, and that was an answer in itself. Lestrade buried his face in his hands, again, and leaned over the table.

"Where is she?" his muffled voice asked from between his fingers.

"I don't know," John said, truthfully. "But you should know that she - "

"Has been tortured and forced into prostitution for years?" Lestrade ended his sentence and dropped his hands on the table.

"Um... yes, something like that..."

"Sherlock told me. But I still have to question her."

"Yeah, suppose so," John said quietly. "But... just... she has scars all over her body and... and she has been forced to drink her own blood," John bursted out, looking at Lestrade a miserable look on his face.

"To drink - _what_?"

"Just be gentle with her, Greg, that's all I ask," John almost whispered.

The day was long and exhausting for everyone. For John, being in cells, alone, thinking about everything that might happen. What if he really was taken to the prison? For years, maybe? What if he wasn't there to look after Sherlock and Angel, anymore? What if they blew up the flat? What if they killed someone? What if someone killed _them_? What if Moriarty really was alive?

What if and what if. It almost drove him mad.

He paced up and down the small room, clenching his fists, running his fingers through his hair, rubbing his face, cursing, feeling terrible. _Jesus, he had to get out of here!_ He almost considered to pray to God again. It had sort of worked last time, hadn't it?

For Sherlock and Angel the day was exhausting too, but in a different way. They had been running around the whole of London to deal with Angel's gun, until the night had fallen. Now, they were back at Baker Street, just about to climb up the stairs.

Angel's gun had been illegal in the morning but it wasn't anymore. And it wasn't the same gun, either. It was XDM, yes, since Angel didn't accept anything else, but it was a different one. The original now lay on the bottom of the Thames.

Anyway, to get rid of one gun and obtain false papers for another one to prove it legal, for a person who actually didn't exist at all, had been quite an achievement, even for those two. Angel knew, of course, where to go and who to ask. Sherlock, on the other hand, had his miraculous talent of reading people's deepest secrets just by glancing at them. Consequently, they had practically blackmailed their way through it all, with some minor misfortunes; twice Angel was forced to threaten folk with her gun and once they had solved things with a fistfight. Sherlock had an awesome shiner and his knuckles were sore and ragged. Angel was limping quite badly, after twisting her ankle during a 'death wall' run. But they had done it. Angel should be safe now.

They were both completely worn out. It was only a couple of hours until dawn and Angel decided to stay in the flat, since Sherlock was going to see John the following day, anyway, and she, herself, had to go for questioning.

As soon as they stepped into the flat, Sherlock ripped off his coat and threw himself on the sofa, closing his eyes. Angel limped into the kitchen, drank a few glasses of water, washed her face and limped back to the living room. She stopped in the kitchen doorway. She studied Sherlock's lean, still figure for a while, her bright blue eyes softening and darkening. And for herself only, she whispered:

_There in the twilight cold and gray_

_Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,_

_And from the sky, serene and far,_

_A voice fell, like a falling star,_

_Excelsior!_

She smiled, tenderly, and stepped inside the room, next to the sofa.

"Would you mind to go to your bed and let me have a bit of rest?" she asked while untiding her bride.

"You can go to my bed, if you want," Sherlock said, his eyes still closed.

"I can't go to your bed!"

"Why not?"  
"Because it's _your_ bed."

"What's wrong with my bed?"  
"Nothing, I guess..."

"So?"  
"I just don't like going other people's beds."

Something in Angel's voice made Sherlock open his eyes and glance at her. He couldn't help but inhale, quickly. Angel's hair was all free flowing now, like a golden stream, glimmering in the light. Sherlock's heart made a flip, but he pursed his lips and closed his eyes again. He forced his voice to be flat and casual.

"Then sleep on the floor," he said.  
"On the floor? I'm still not a dog, Sherlock. Now, budge up!"

Sherlock didn't. He wanted to know what Angel would do, if he just stayed there. Maybe she would... you know... At least it was worth trying, so he said firmly:

"No."

Angel glared at him.

"You have a complete lack of gallantry, you know."

"That's not true. I'm just not in the mood."  
"It's not about being in the _mood_. It's _character_, which you obviously don't have!"

"I have just spent an entire day fighting and threatening for you. What do you call it, if not gallantry?"

"You loved it."

"So, if you love to do something, it doesn't count?"

"No. Yes. I don't know! Don't mess about, you bloody well know what I'm trying to say!

Sherlock made an indifferent noise in his throat. His heart was beating a little bit too fast.

"Right..."

Angel stepped up to the sofa, pushed her arms under Sherlock and heaved him fiercely over, so that he ended up facing the back rest.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Sherlock's muffled voice cried.

"Don't be deliberately obtuse."

"You can't possibly - "

Angel kept holding Sherlock firmly and laid down next to him, taking most of the space for herself.

"How am I suppose to breath with half of the sofa in my mouth," Sherlock groaned.

"It's none of my concern. And I don't see the point of complaining about such a boring thing as breathing. But you can turn around if you wish," Angel said calmly. She moved slightly and let Sherlock turn. They ended up lying shoulder to shoulder and, apparently, having too little space.

"This isn't going to work," Sherlock said, sounding much more irritated than he actually was. Because, to be frank, he wasn't irritated at all.

"No, it's not, so just bug off."

"You don't believe that even yourself."

"Unfortunately not," Angel sighed. "You could turn onto your other side? I might as well, actually."

Angel turned onto her right side, facing the room. She felt Sherlock turning, too, and a hidden, happy smile lit up her face. After a few seconds of silence Sherlock murmured:

"What am I supposed to do with my right hand, since it's stuck under me and I can't move it anywhere?"

"What if you just ripped it off and forced it down your throat to stop that never-ending whining?"

"That was rude you know. John wouldn't like that at all," Sherlock said, a slightly hurted tone to his voice.

"You have no idea."

"About what?"

"About how rude I could be if I wanted."

"How rude is that, then?"

"You don't really want to know."

"I do."

Angel sighed and didn't respond. She was feeling terrible tired and just wanted to sleep. She stared at the dying fire at the other end of the room and her eyes felt heavy and burning. She let them close.

Sherlock finally closed his mouth. He concentrated on taking deep, steady breaths, which he found oddly difficult, now that Angel's hair was finally so close. He carefully moved his head closer, until the silky touch made his cheeks tickle and his chest felt unbelievable warm. He closed his eyes, sighing.

He waited. And when he heard from Angel's breathing that she had fallen asleep, he moved even closer and did something he had so long desired. He carefully raised his hand and fondled her hair. It was roughter than he had expected and its touch brought a sudden, old memory into his mind. It was one of those extremely rare, happy childhood memories he had. He remembered himself, as a little kid, standing in the middle of a huge field of corn, long spikes streching up to his shoulders and waving slowly around him in a gentle summer breeze, like a golden sea. He heard the screams of the distant gulls in his ears and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. Those ripe spikes had felt the same as Angel's hair. They had been the same colour as her hair. And when he, finally, buried his face in that golden, silky fall, he recognized it had the same scent as that fabulous summer day, so long ago. It was the scent of sun-dried corn and white poppies, bowing in the wind. It was the scent of a summer breeze and an enormous, bright, deep-blue sky. It was the scent of happiness and infinity.

An imponderable, almost painful feeling of satisfaction filled Sherlock's chest and, closing his eyes, he inhaled the wonderful fragrance of her hair, again.

And again.

And again.


	21. Epilogue2

Epilogue

John came back home early in the morning. Mycroft had payed a short visit to the Yard and, right after that, John had been released to go home. Without charge, yet also without a gun. Still, John didn't complain. He had been in quite a lot of trouble and to walk free from it, just like that, was more than a miracle. He didn't know how to thank Mycroft.

When he stepped into the living room, he found Sherlock and Angel, sleeping on the sofa, a gentle smile on their lips. Sherlock's long arm was wrapped around Angel, his knuckles shining raw and red in the morning light.

John smiled and felt his throat tighten. How they ended up lying like that, he didn't know. Undoubtably it involved arguing and mockery and was, in the absence of anything better at the moment, to be called subconscious necessity. Yet, at least, it had finally happened. And how innocent they looked, and how peaceful! And how much he cared about them both, those stubborn, childlike creatures...

John sat in the armchair, enjoying the unusual peace and silence. He clearly understood now, why parents always think their children are at their best and cutest, when they are asleep. It was probably an odd sentiment when it was about two grown ups but then, all in all, it wasn't that odd.

He sighed and suddenly felt himself very lucky and even... blessed?

Or cursed?

Or blessed with a curse?

He smiled again. And the morning sun behind the windows rose full of golden light and eternal beauty.

The End of Part Two

* * *

Author's note: Dear readers, thank you for following my story this far! Your reviews have been lovely and appreciated and always will be. There is still Part III to go, after some time. Might take weeks (hopefully not months) to make it ready for you to read... Anyway, welcome aboard once it's time again!


	22. Part III - Chapter 1

Okay, folks, here we are again! It's time to move on to the Final Part. I hope you'll still enjoy my story and I'm always eager to know what you think of it. Now, no more talking, let's get down to business.

* * *

Part Three

**To the Four Winds**

Chapter 1

On the very same morning that John was released, a postman brought a neat parcel for him. Inside, there was a new gun with a short note and some papers:

_You need this. And it's legal, by the way. No need to thank me._

_Mycroft_

It wasn't the same model John used to have, yet similar, the one which was permitted for private ownership. John picked up the gun, in his hands, caressed it tenderly and smiled. Despite the note, he took his phone and sent a text.

_Anytime you've got someone to shoot, just call me. - John_

_I'll keep that in mind. - MH_

_Seriously, how can I ever make this all up to you? - John_

_Don't mention it, John. For me it's enough you put up with Sherlock. Oh, and could you tell Angel she doesn't need to go for questioning. - MH_

John smiled. He lifted his eyes from the phone and saw Sherlock and Angel drawing drowsily away from one another. The peeping sound of John's phone had woken them up. They were both glowering at John, like it was his fault that they had drifted off to sleep on the same sofa. John let the smile die and forced his face blank.

"What is it that Mycroft wants this time?" Sherlock almost spat out the words. He ruffled his hair, furiously, so that it was sticking up in every possible direction and made him look more or less insane.

"I'm pleased to see you too. And thanks for asking, your dear brother is the reason why I'm sitting here in my chair and not in cells. And did I forget to mention, he just gave me a new gun, that's all." Then John just couldn't hold himself back, anymore. A wide, warm smile spread across his face and his eyes shone like two blue stars, as he held the gun up.

Angel smiled at his delight. Sherlock snorted but looked less irritated.

"And he said that there's no need for Angel to go for questioning."

"WHAT?"

The outcry was simultaneous and Sherlock and Angel turned to stare at each other.

"Oh, fuck me!" Angel huffed and sprang to her feet. Then she moaned loudly and sat straight back down.

"Excuse me?" John asked, puzzled.

"She means 'oh shit'", Sherlock said sulkily.

"Does she?"

"Yes."

"No, I don't! I mean exactly what I said. This isn't a shit-thing anymore. This is very much a fuck-thing!" Angel cried, massaging her ankle.

"What is?" John asked, even more confused.

"Bloody hell, we were running all over the city yesterday, to get rid of my bloody gun and find another. Now you tell me it was all waste of fucking time and braincells! All we got was a damned shiner and a goddamn twisted ankle!"

"Um... for a pretty girl like you, if you don't mind my saying so, you curse quite a lot," John said.

"Well, I wasn't actually nurtured in a university atmosphere, was I? And when it comes to cursing, anyway, English is a pitiful example," Angel huffed.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, in a somewhat challenging way.

"I mean what I say, as always. You can't really curse properly in English. It's quite annoying, actually."

"Well... in what language can you curse properly, then?" John asked.

"In Finnish."

"So you know Finnish?"

"Enough to curse this world to hell."

"What is it exactly that irritates you so much? The time you've lost by running around or the ankle you've hurt or the fact that you don't need to go for questioning. I thought you would be relieved." John said, placing his new gun on the coffee table and squatting down, to have a look at Angel's ankle.

"My gun," Angel sighed. "I'm sorry but I really loved my gun. It makes me almost sick to think it's now lying at the bottom of the Thames, and all for nothing. You know what I mean because you loved your gun, too, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did," John sighed. "But I can also love this new one."

"I'm not sure if I can," Angel said. "And yes, my ankle irritates me, too. The wound in the shoulder was kind of okay, because I could still walk and run and kick. A twisted ankle is not okay at all. What does it look like?"

"Well, it's not broken or anything, just a little bit warm but the swelling isn't that bad. You should have put ice on it yesterday, though. I'll go and get some but it won't be much use, now."

John stood up and headed for the kitchen. Angel and Sherlock leaned back, in unison, with loud sighes. Instantly, they both jerked back up and looked at each other, furrowing their brows. They tried to lean back again, at the same time, and jerked back up.

"Stop it!" Sherlock said.

"What? I'm not doing anything."

"You're parroting me. It's annoying!"

"I'm not parroting!"

"You are!"

"What the hell, maybe it's you who is parroting me, what?"

"Look, you stay still or you lean back. Which one do you choose?" Sherlock huffed angrily.

"I'm not choosing anything, you idiot! I'm going home," Angel said, stood up and started to limp toward the door.

"What are you doing?" John asked. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, an ice pack in one hand and some skin tape, a wet washcloth and other supplies, for Sherlock's bruises, in the other.

"I need some air!" Angel said and slammed the door shut behind her.

They heard her stumbling down the stairs.

"Okay, what's this all about?" John asked and stopped in front of Sherlock, who had thrown himself down on the sofa again, looking extremely pissed off. Sherlock didn't bother to answer. After a while John leaned over him and tried to clean his badly grazed knuckles. Sherlock yanked his hand away and turned his back to John. The ex-army doctor straightened himself.

"Right. Okay. Just stay there and suffer by yourself," John muttered under his breath and dropped the first-aid stuff on the coffee table. He grabbed his new gun and marched to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I need some air, too!"

The slam of the door made the whole flat jolt. Sherlock grunted in frustration. He was annoyingly aware of his childlike behavior and it made his head feel disgustingly hot. Suddenly he freaked out, teared his shoes off and threw them, hard, at the door. The sound of bangs faded away and the silence fell over the flat like a deadening blanket.

Sherlock lay still for a while and tried to force himself to pass out from the world. But, sadly, it didn't work. He lasted for an hour. Then he stumbled up and marched into the kitchen, since there was really no point in sulking alone. He put the kettle on, took a teacup from the cupboard and slammed it on the table. He ripped open the loaf of bread and shoved two slices into the toaster. The smell of food turned his stomach and made him swallow. A steely taste of blood seared his tongue. Ignoring that, he yanked open the fridge door, only to discover that they were out of milk. He grunted, loudly, slammed the door shut and kicked the fridge violently. A hot pain struck through his toes and he winced.

"Bloody fucking hell!"

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, as if surprised at what he had just said. He looked around, guiltily, and took a deep breath. Hanging around with Angel was obviously doing him no good. He took another deep breath. Then, suddenly, a huge wave of fatigue washed over him and almost forced him to take a few steps forward, to keep himself from falling over. His shoulders slumped and he let his head drop down.

It all sucked. The whole bloody, miserable life, sucked. Moriarty was alive. After all he had done during those three, lonely years, to wipe this world clean from all the evil traces that man had left behind, he was still alive and playing with them, again. That snake had just been hiding somewhere, waiting for his time, waiting for him to come home to John so that he could burn him once more. Sherlock knew well enough who had burgled their flat and sent John's gun to Lestrade. It was Moriarty's way of saying he was back again. He had done it just to make them dance. And they had danced, like some shameful pullstring toys...

The sound of boiling water rumbled, loudly, in the silence. The smell of burning toast hovered in the air. But Sherlock didn't move. He was breathing slowly, deeply, like the air was trying to escape from him and he had to work hard to get it into his lungs. His mind was numb. He didn't want to think about the coming day. Or days after that. He didn't want to know what kind of battle there was waiting for him, this time. He and John had hardly gotten over the last one. The wounds were still sore. They both pretended they weren't. They both pretended that no wounds even existed. But they did, and they hurt. To be away from John for over three years had been the most horrific experience in Sherlock's life. He hadn't had any idea it would be so bad. He hadn't known he needed John so much. That it was so awful, so _empty,_ to live alone. He didn't want to know what it had been like for John, who had had to cope with the terrible belief, that his best friend was dead.

Suddenly, Sherlock regretted that he hadn't let John to take care of his hand and his black eye. John needed to do that kind of things. He needed to be helpful. He needed to feel necessary. He _was_ necessary. And more. He was crucial, yet, he wasn't the only one, any more. Now there was also Angel. The nonexistant girl with golden hair and a mischievous smile.

_Crucial_. That's what they were for him now, those two. So, why couldn't he let them know it, feel it? Why did he always had to be so sulky, so impossible? Why did he have to hurt people who mattered so much to him?

Then, slowly and dimly, some old, deleted memories from childhood took shape in Sherlock's mind:

A little, dark-haired boy in his big bed, in his big room, alone, curled up in a ball, sobbing quietly. The lean boy, staring out of the big window at the huge, nightly Universe, grabbing his worn-out teddy, pressing it against his cold body. The bent boy, holding the violin in the bright sunlight, listening to his fathers thundering voice, yelling something unintelligible about wasting his time. The lonely boy, gazing after his parents as they went, in a big limousine, leaving him alone on the big steps of a huge, empty mansion, not even looking back.

Sherlock Holmes was not stupid. He knew well enough the basics of the psychology to understand what had made him the man he was. He knew, why he hurt those close to him. He knew, why he couldn't show his caring, or to accept it from others. He knew, yes, only he just didn't _want_ to know. Because it still hurt, after all these years. Because he could still feel that desperate longing for love and touch which he never received.

Sherlock felt tears burning behind his eyes. Again? he thought, disdainly. Not _again? _His jaw tightened and his fists clenched. His lips turned pale and, suddenly, he grabbed the kitchen table and threw it over with a huge roar. Test-tubes and dirty teacups were dashed onto the floor and smashed into pieces. Books and papers flew all over and fluttered in the air, like a flock of colourful birds, escaping from a cage.

Tinkling, rattling, rustling... and then, again, a deadening silence.

Sherlock glowered at the mess with burning eyes, panting, gritting his teeth. He wanted to break more things. He wanted to blow up the whole flat. He wanted to strangle someone. He wanted to strangle Moriarty, to squeeze life out of him with his bare hands.

_Moriarty - Moriarty - Moriarty_

The name hammered in his ears to the rhythm of his racing heart. It was like a poison in his bloodstream, spreading around his entire body, driving his slowly insane.

What if someone did die this time? Like, really die. What if John died? What if Angel died? What if he died, himself? The last question startled him a little. What did he care about himself? He had never cared about himself. For him, it really didn't matter if he was dead or alive, since the world was mostly so boring and dull, anyway. He asked that question only because he knew that it mattered to someone else. That there were people who would suffer, if he died. He had seen that in the shape of Mrs. Hudson, when she had walked to his fake funeral. He had seen it in Lestrade's eyes, when he had stood beside his fake grave. He had heard it in John's voice, when he had begged him to come back. A thousand times.

It all made Sherlock feel sick. Like there was a huge knot of burning snakes in his stomach, lurking and twisting and biting. Eating their way out.

No.

_No!_

It mustn't happen.

It wouldn't happen.

No one would die.

Except Moriarty.

And all of a sudden, the world became crystal clear. The numbness and weariness in Sherlock's mind and body was replaced by a slow-burning rage. His racing heart didn't calm down but the beating wasn't panicky anymore. It was fast and steady and strong. It was the sound of the war drum and it awakened the lonely wolf inside him. With bulging muscles that sinewy, fierce, silvery creature stood up, snarling, baring its sharp teeth.

A low, animal-like growl escaped from Sherlock's throat and vibrated in his chest. His gleaming eyes narrowed and turned cold and frosty. Then he smiled, a cold, teeth-baring smile with no joy nor amusement but only pure, rock-hard, merciless determination. Once there had been a time, when Sherlock Holmes used to say _'The game is on'_. Now 'the game' was really not the word anymore. The word was '_war', _and it was on again. Yet, this time, no matter what it took, Moriarty would die. Fully and completely and totally. If it was up to Sherlock Holmes, before this war was over, there would be no trace of that man on the Earth, anymore.

Sherlock rushed into the living room and flung open his laptop. He started to drum over the keypad. There was no reason, whatsoever, to delay this. He would start the war right away and in order to win it, he needed information.

_Drug dealing in London. _

_Human trafficking in Europe. _

_The Redhead Gang. _

They all led to Moriarty, one way or another. Althought Sherlock didn't really want to think about it, it was painfully clear that during those three years when he had been destroying Moriarty's empire from one end, that man had been silently building it up from another. Obviously, with a collection of new names and identities to delude him. The Redhead Gang was just the tip of the iceberg. The human trafficking, as Sherlock very well knew, was a huge business whose tentacles infiltrated around the whole world.

After half an hour Sherlock spotted something worth trying. He jumped up, grapped his coat from the hook and flew downstairs. In a flash of a dark-blue coat, like a gust of a thunderstorm, he was out of the flat and into the streets.


	23. Part III - Chapter 2

Author's Note: If you want a suitable background music for this chapter, choose the theme music of _Schindler's list _played by Simina Croitoru (You Tube). It's the one that Angel is listening in her room and absolutely beautiful! Another note: GCCS is an abbreviation for the Government Code and Cypher School in Britain, during the First and Second World War.

* * *

Chapter 2

Sherlock reckoned he would track Angel down in a couple of hours but, actually, it took the whole day. It was early evening when he finally stood in front of her door, not so far from Baker Street. The building was tall and old and worn-out and her room was on the very top, there in the attic.

Sherlock was pissed off, as he had lost the entire day running aroud like a scenthound. He had tried to call and text Angel, at least hundred times, but she didn't respond. Out of breath, he knocked at the door. It opened, slowly, and Angel stood in the doorway. She didn't look surprised.

"You took your time," she just said and went back to her room.

Sherlock snorted and scanned the view. The room was small but warm because of several portable space heaters. And it was plain and simple. The walls were light grey and empty. There were no posters, no paintings or pictures of any kind but only one, large window, with a view over the whole city of London into the grey, foggy distance. The mild scent of vanilla hovered in the air, blending with sounds of violin from the stereos. Sherlock recognised the piece. It was the theme music from the movie _Schindler's list_.

Angel had a large table placed under the window, her new XDM there on the corner, several lamps around the room, a commonplace bed with Sherlock's old violin upon it, an expensive stereo system with large number of cd's and a nice, thick, grey carpet on the floor. And she had books. Lots of books laying everywhere - on the table, on the bed, on the floor and on the chairs.

Sherlock glanced at those closest to him and saw Dante's The Divine Comedy, some plays of Shakespeare, The Book of Puppets (what on earth did she need that for?), several fairy tales and a few books in language he didn't recognize (which irritated him, as he could recognize roughly forty languages), but he assumed it could be Finnish. Then he noticed a book on the chair, near the table, open, as if Angel had just been reading it. It was The Code Book of Simon Singh. Sherlock stepped inside and pointed the book with his forefinger.

"What do you need that for?" he asked.

"For reading?" she said.

"Why do you want to read about the codes?"

"Why I wouldn't?"

Sherlock looked at her. She really had an infuriating habit of answering a question with another question. He sighed.

"Most people don't care about codes."

"Well, I'm not the most people, apparently."

Sherlock snorted and gave her a quick smirk. He took the book in his hands and absent-mindedly leafed through the pages.

"Did you try to break the codes?" he asked.

"Yeah, I managed three but now I'm stuck with the Vigenére cipher. You know, it's hard when you can't guess the language. I'm not sure if it's Italian or French, since the method was originally described by Bellaso, but later misattributed to Vigenére. And you know, once the letter frequency doesn't work any more..."

"Do you want to know the language?" Sherlock asked, now the irritation totally left behind.

"No, I don't. What's the point of breaking the cipher if I knew it?"

Sherlock smiled and felt something warm in his chest. Angel looked at him for a moment and smiled.

"You should have born earlier," she said.

"Why?"

"You could have gone to GCCS. I can see in my mind's eye, you dashing around that Victorian Bletchley Park, your brilliant brain gearing up for some incredible breakthrough. You would have loved it, wouldn't you? Competing against the Enigma machine and all that?"

"To live through the First and the Second World War wouldn't probably have been a pleasure, yet, thinking about the fact that they were working on the diplomatic codes and ciphers of 26 countries... Yes, I think I might have liked it."

"It wouldn't have lasted long, though, your interest," Angel pointed out.

"Why not?" Sherlock demanded.

"Because no one would have tried to shoot you there. If not those other geniouses, of course, for you being an arrogant git and upsetting them so much."

"I'm not _an arrogant git_! It just looks like it because everyone else is so stupid," Sherlock snorted. "And I definitely don't need to be being shot at, not to be bored!"

"Yes, you do," Angel said firmly. "John told me you even judge the success of a date by counting how many times you nearly got killed."

"I don't go for dates."

"Nope, but John does."

Sherlock stiffened and shot Angel an odd side-glance. He placed the book on the table, snorting, and saw a drawing upon it. A beautiful picture it was, yet not finished, of a girl with impossible long, golden hair, lying on a bed, sleeping. The entire picture was full of white roses and somewhere behind, like a shadow, was a tall figure of a man.

"Did you... do you...?" Sherlock stammered.

"Yes. _The Sleeping Beauty._ I'm an illustrator."

"You are a _what_?"

Sherlock stared at her, his eyebrows furrowed. This whole... issue didn't make any sense. _She_ didn't make any sense. It was like this girl had countless sides to her. Every time Sherlock had, more or less, got used to one side, she revealed another. He wondered how many sides there would be, eventually, and would he even want to know, as he never liked riddles. But then, she was not a riddle, was she? She was more like a mystery, or a cipher. And Sherlock loved ciphers and mysteries, as far as he could decipher and solve them. But he was slowly realising that this particular case would probably end up in unsolved ones. Was it bad or was it good, he didn't know.

_"Now, it so happened that a Prince arrived in these parts of the deep forest. Handsome and melancholy, he sought in solitude everything he could not find in the world: serenity, sincerity and purity..."_

Angel's voice was quiet, no more than a whisper. She looked out of window, at the slowly reddening clouds that sailed across the darkening sky into the distance. She had thrust her hands into the pockets of her black jeans and she looked somewhat naked without her shoulder holster and the coat. And not just naked, but vulnerable.

For some reason, Sherlock quivered. He looked at the illustration again. Even if he wasn't too familiar with illustration art, he could see the drawing was really good. It was artful and had that special, indefinable sense of something, which turned it to be more than just a picture - it was a fairy tale in itself, a story with a past and an unknown future. Yet, in this case, he knew exactly how the story of The Sleeping Beauty ends. He tried not to think about it. He touched the picture gently and pined. Then he gave a deep sigh.

"It's beautiful," he said finally, giving up the long and gruelling battle, that he had had in his heart during the past weeks. "It's like you when you have your hair loose."

Angel startled and turned to look at him. Sherlock lifted his eyes from the picture and met her bright, blue gaze. His chest was hot inside. He neither moved nor breathed but only stared at her, waiting. For what? He wasn't sure, but only knew he was waiting for something that had never happened before. Something, that he had never actually even believed in.

He was waiting for a miracle.

Angel looked confused and a little bit panicky, yet Sherlock could see the longing in her eyes. The longing for shelter and care and a tender touch. The longing for unreserved love. She swallowed and dropped her gaze. Then she bent her neck, inhaled deeply and let the air come out slowly. When she lifted her eyes again, there was no more confusion nor longing there but only that bright blue, and she asked:

"Why did you come to me?"

And Sherlock, because he hated it to explain himself, said only:

"Because I need you for the case."


	24. Part III - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"You want me to be your date? For a drug party?"

"Yes, is there some problem?"

"You just said you don't go for dates."

"It's not a real date, it's for the case!"

"Oh, of course..."

Sherlock tried to ignore the burning feel of hurt, in his heart. He knew he hadn't said much to her, just referred to her hair. But he knew that _she_ knew he had meant more. And she had rejected it. Turned it down. Turned _him_ down.

If there hadn't been that longing in her eyes before, he would have gone, furious, and never come back. But it had been there. And he just couldn't bring himself to go. He didn't want to go. He tried to keep the pain and the anger out of his voice and his eyes. Because he needed her. Now, for the case, and on the whole, for his life.

"Well... I don't like drugs," Angel said and winced.

"You don't have to inject yourself, we are there just to get some data," Sherlock said sharply.

"Are _you_ going to inject yourself?"

He stared at her.

"I know you've been a junky. I notice the marks. Seen them often enough."

Sherlock continued staring.

"I gave it up," he said at last, sighing. "After coming back home."

"Back home?" Angel knitted her brows.

Sherlock looked at her. Suddenly, he felt like he wanted to tell her everything. Everything about every single, painful moment of his diaspora. He knew she would understand. And what a relief it would be, to tell someone at last! To let someone know he had feelings, such like fear and longing and even some kind of love. To let someone comfort him, touch him...

He shook his head, to get rid of the baffling feelings and flashed a brief smile, which didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Long story," he stated shortly.

"I love long stories," Angel said quietly and looked at her toes.

Sherlock swallowed. He couldn't understand why she made him feel so... odd... so kind of uncomfortable, yet painfully beautiful. He wanted to touch her and it amazed him even more, since he really didn't like touching anyone. He wanted to break that little space between them, the space that vibrated almost audible, but he forced his hand to stay where it was, safely inside his coat pocket. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

She raised her eyes and looked at him.

Sherlock's heart missed a beat.

"I'll tell you one day," he promised finally.

She nodded. "Well, if you're not going to take any, I'll come," she said and smiled. "And you know what, I'm glad that you quit."

Sherlock could tell by her smile that she really meant it. And, suddenly, he was glad of it, too.

"Did you use any when you were... you know...before?" he asked, surprised at his own curiosity.

"I never needed drugs to get out of this world," she said a tired smile on her face and waved at the drawing.

ooOoo

Angel wanted two hours to get ready. Sherlock couldn't understand what she needed two hours for but, as the party wouldn't start until midnight, there was no reason to refuse. They agreed she would be at Baker Street around half past eleven.

So, off he went, down the stairs, out to the cold and wind, perplexed because of the storm of emotions in his heart. He was angry and hurt, yes, but also unreasonable happy and what, excited? He had actually asked Angel for a date. And she had accepted. It wasn't a real date, of course, as it had to do with the case. Yet, somehow, Sherlock couldn't think of it as just a mere transaction.

He went back to the flat. John wasn't there and the mess in the kitchen was untouchable, which indicated that John hadn't popped in during his absence. A hint of worry passed Sherlock's thoughts. John had been gone since the morning and he hadn't received any texts or phonecalls from him the entire day. Maybe he had gone to Mary's. But then, just to make sure, Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a text.

_Did you get enough air yet? - SH_

_I'm still gasping but feeling better. - John_

_Where are you? - SH_

_Went out with a couple of workmates. Will be back before tonight. Why? Has something happened? - John_

_More burglaries. Messed up in the kitchen. - SH_

_Nice try. What experiments this time? - John_

_John! - SH_

_Sherlock. - John_

_You said you trust me! - SH_

_Yes, and I said you are a blatant lier, too. You know, I rarely believe you when it's about the mess in our flat. Last time you had an alibi, though, being with me. This time, no chance. - John_

_Okay, right. I did it. But I'm too busy to clean it. I'm going out with Angel. Got to do some drug-digging. - SH_

_Hold on. Sounds a bit bad to me. What kind of digging? - John_

_Normal digging. Collecting data. Would have asked you but I needed a woman. Unless you feel like faking being gay again? - SH_

_I don't. Is it dangerous? - John_

_Normal. Take it easy. You have a day off. Isn't that wonderful? - SH_

_I'm getting really worried. Anything stated 'normal' is not good when it's about you, especially now when... you know. When _he_ is around again. Maybe I should come home. - John_

_It's not necessary, John, really. It's a drug party. A lot of pompous, stupid, rich people. Nothing to be alarmed about. - SH_

_Okay, then. Just take care. - John_

_Always. - SH_

_Yeah, sure. - John_

Sherlock smiled and dropped the phone back into his pocket. He easily ignored the mess in the kitchen and sat down to search for more information about the place they were going. The party was to be held in a big house, in a high class residential area, on the outskirts of the city. Sherlock realised that he hadn't told that to Angel. And he hadn't told her, either, that she should make herself look wealthy. Or that she should find a way to hide her gun somewhere, as she would wear some kind of dress anyway and -

A dress?

He hadn't told her that she had to wear an evening dress. She wouldn't come wearing her black jeans and black shirt and that black coat, would she? Because if she did, they wouldn't get inside. They surely wouldn't take any paramilitaries there. It was an 'inner circle' party and he had used one of his less decent acquaintances, who owed him a favor, to get an invitation.

Damn it! He took his phone and sent a quick message.

_Wear an evening dress. - SH_

The short answer came soon enough.

_What do you think I need two hours for? - Angel_

Sherlock grinned and placed the phone on the table. Then he remembered.

_How about your ankle? Can you walk? - SH_

_Not really. But I've got my wings, you know. I'm not called Angel for nothing. - Angel_

_Very clever. For once, I'm being nice and what I get? - SH_

_Sorry. The ankle is better, thanks for asking. A lot of ice and beautiful thoughts, you know. I'll bandage it so it'll be all right. - Angel_

_Ok. And bring a gun. - SH_

_Am I ever without? - Angel_

_Don't bring the shoulder holster. - SH_

_What you think I am, an idiot? - Angel_

No. She really wasn't an idiot. Sherlock had never thought she was. He grinned again and continued to search for more information about the family. He broke into their computer and copied an invitation list. There were a few familiar names there but nothing alarming. It should be safe enough to go there, since the place was full of people, anyway.

After finding all the information needed, Sherlock went to his bedroom to get dressed up. He looked at his black eye in the mirror for a while. Then he went over to his drawer and opened the first box. He took a small, angular case from inside, put it on the table and opened it. It was full of makeup. Sherlock rummaged through it for a while and found what he was looking for. He opened the small palette of concealer and returned to the mirror. He managed to hide his bruise pretty well. He shrugged his shoulders and put the palette back in the case.

He scratched his head, absent-mindedly. Considering all that he knew, the semi-formal wearing etiquette would do. So black jacket it was then and black pants. He took his second best suit and a white silk shirt. For a second, he considered wearing a tie, but then, even mere thought annoyed him. He had never liked ties. Wearing one made him feel constrained and chained. Somehow like a dog on a leash. So he decided against.

Once he was ready, he tried to comb his hair but it was useless, so he let it be. He looked at himself in the mirror and nodded. That should do. He heard the doorbell ring. He went downstairs, as Mrs. Hudson was not at home. He opened the door. His heart stopped beating for a second.

Or two.

Or three.

And once it started to beat again, he feared it would jump out from his chest.

Angel had a stunning little black dress, with sequin details, asymmetrical neckline and on trend single sleeve, which covered the bullet scar. The short hem showed off her sinewy legs. She had black, strapped high heeled boots that added a good dose of sexy to her appearance, which already took Sherlock's breath away. He inhaled lightly, as he found it impossible to take a deep breath, however much he needed air.

"Why did you ring? You never ring." His voice was low and stifled.

"I forgot my lockpick. Left it in my coat."

Sherlock stared at her. He noticed how perfect her body was and how extremely womanly. Her curves were usually covered up by that black coat, which was now replaced with something black and silky that she was carrying in her hand. She also had a small evening bag. For the gun, Sherlock thought vaguely.

"May I come in for a while? I'm freezing."

"What? Oh yes, please... Sorry, I'm..."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. His throat felt tight and his chest hot. He stared at her face. She wore smoky makeup with nude lipstick. Sherlock had never before seen her wearing any makeup. She looked absolutely beautiful. Her blue eyes were almost black. Her hair was a complicated artwork with lots of curls, held up with invisible hairpins. A golden crown, Sherlock thought and wondered no more what she had been doing for the past two hours.

She walked by and Sherlock glanced at her back. He could see the scars running across her unclothed right upperback and suddenly he wondered, not for the first time, what she _really_ had been through. A boiling anger flooded through him and suddenly he had to fight to be able to breathe at all. He thought about The Red Captain, and wondered how utterly _vile_ can a man be. He hoped, irrationally, that he was still alive. Alive to die again, this time very slowly and suffering pain.

Once inside, Angel turned around and looked at Sherlock. The staircase was shadowy and her eyes were shadowy. The dusk was back, and it was cryptic and dangerous and alluring.

Sherlock wanted her. Right there and right now. It was a long time since he really wanted anyone, man or woman. An eternity, actually. Sex wasn't a thing Sherlock Holmes was interested in. He found it boring. A waste of time. Too much effort with little reward. Well, it was before. In some other life he couldn't quite recall just now.

He stepped closer. The hot feeling in his chest sneaked down to his groin. Then he remembered her scars again. Her voice saying: "_BDSM mostly..._"And it forced him to stop. Suddenly he wondered how many times she had been made to dress like that, pose as a callbird for anyone to desire. And to get and to take and to destroy...

So there he stood, unable to move back or forth, the burning in his groin spreading around his entire body, until he didn't know anymore if it was lust or anger or sorrow or something else he couldn't find words for. He saw that Angel understood what his mind was going through and her gaze turned even more black. There was something broken there, in her eyes.

_She_ was broken, from inside.

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered his first impression of her, being a diamond, and he realised that, even if diamond was one of the hardest material on Earth, it's ability to resist breakage from a crushing blow was limited. In Angel's life there had been too many blows. So many, that the rare black diamond she was had shattered into pieces.

And no one, not even him, could make her whole again.


	25. Part III - Chapter 4

Author's note: A suitable piece of background music for this chapter would be Massenet's Elegie (You Tube: Violin: Joshua Bell, video made by LaMarAzura). Might be that you have to play it twice... Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 4

They took a cab and headed for the outskirts.

The journey was silent. They were both lost in thoughts which were not beautiful nor anything they wanted to share. Angel was staring out of the window, seeing nothing. She looked abysmally sad. Like one of those homeless creatures, who seemed to be sorry for what they were, sorry for existing at all.

Sherlock stole a quick side-glance at Angel's face and cursed himself. He couldn't believe he had been such an idiot! He should have understood never to let his lust come out in a moment like that. Or ever, come to think of it. Angel's experiences with sex had most likely been destructive. In her mind sex was, undoubtably, just a painful, raw and shameful act of cruelty and Sherlock wondered if any amount of love and caring would ever make it better.

His stomach tightened, painfully. Then, just like before, an image from childhood floated into his conciousness. That image of a lean boy staring out of the big window. Only this time, the boy wasn't staring at the Universe but into another room, shadowy and dark. And in that room there was a golden-haired, lonely girl handcuffed to the bed, lying on her back, eyes wide open, but motionless. And not only was the whole picture hearbreaking but, most of all, the fact that the girl did nothing; she didn't move, she didn't blink, she didn't cry. She just lay there, like an empty shell.

Sherlock wanted to reach out his hand and knock on the window. He wanted to open the window and climb into the room. He wanted to talk to the girl. To tell her that she was not alone, anymore. That she was safe. That he would take care of her.

He looked at Angel, there beside him, in the dark cab. Her face was so beautiful, yet so full of sorrow. Suddenly, she turned her eyes and looked at him, deep into his eyes. Sherlock caught his breath. He felt his footsteps stagger, even though he wasn't standing. He felt himself slipping and falling into something like water, only it was not wet and cold, but warm and bright blue, with amorphous shadows floating around and glitters of cold, sparkling everywhere.

Then she blinked and turned her face back to the window. Sherlock swallowed once, twice. He tried to focus on the present, but it was insubstantial and somehow slipped away. Tiny sparks of gold were still twinkling in his vision. He tried to blink them away but they stayed, like distant stars.

He tried to calm himself. He forced himself not to think about her or her past life or her suffering. He forced himself to forget what he felt for her, to concentrate only on the coming case. He felt his heartbeats slowing down and his head clearing again. The anger and the sorrow and the lust all faded away, until he was himself again; calm, calculating and sharp.

Angel glanced at Sherlock. The detective was motionless and looked distant. He didn't tinker with his phone, though, so there was something bothering him. She fiddled with her hem for a while and then seemed to make up her mind.

"Sherlock..."

Her voice was small and tentative. Sherlock's heart jumped and his concentration fell to pieces in an instant.

_She had said his name._ For the first time. And somehow it felt like she had touched him, gently, on his lips. Sherlock inhaled and swore. This was such a fucking mess, all of it! It wasn't going to work. _She_ wasn't going to work! If she could break his concentration with one, single word, how would he ever be able to cope with the case and with all that observing and -

"Sherlock?"

He turned to her, sharply.

"What?" he snapped.

She blinked twice. Then she bit her lower lip, hesitated for a moment and started to talk.

"Please, don't be sorry for what happened there in the stairwell. I'm as sorry as you are, so there's no need to make any fuss about it. Every woman wants to be desired and I'm no exception, as long as the desirer is someone I love. I love you, Sherlock. I always did, from the very beginning. It's just... you know..." She made a short pause, thinking, glancing out of the window.

Sherlock stared at her. Did she just said _love_? _I love you, Sherlock_, she said, didn't she? But... he didn't know _anything_ about love, for goodness sake! Well, of course he knew the biological basics, the chemistry of it. And he knew about his love for John. But this was different. This was about a woman. About romantic love, and of that he knew absolutely nothing! Well... it _could_ be that these odd feelings he was having towards her indicated some kind of love, but they were _his_ feelings, _his_ thoughts, and he could keep them under control. He could -

"I tried to stay away, as I knew this was going to happen some day," she continued, cutting off Sherlock's chaotic thoughts. "And what I've been through, it just isn't that simple. I... I don't want to mess you up with those miserable memories from the past. I want to try to get over them first. And for that I need time. Will you give me time, Sherlock?"

Time? Time for what? He didn't quite follow now. The love-thing had messed up his thoughts and he just couldn't get to grips with it. If she really was in love with him, things had turned far too complicated...

Yet, wasn't it amazing? Wasn't it absolutely beautiful?

No.

But she loved him... _Him?_ A freak. How sweet a thought it was... How warm it made him feel, warm and almost unbearable happy...

_No_. Stop it! It wasn't... he shouldn't... He... It would only cause much trouble! Yes, _trouble_. That was a word he understood. Because, honestly, wasn't it always so? Women wanting everything unintelligible; intime dinners and presents and roses and rings and... Sherlock felt panic raising its head inside him. He wouldn't be able to handle it. He couldn't do it! He didn't know how to... how to -

"I know nothing about it!" he bursted out, desperately.

"About what?" Angel asked, confused.

"About _love_," Sherlock said, now clearly panicking.

"Oh, there's nothing to be known about it, Sherlock. Love is only a need to keep someone in your life forever. It's as simple as that."

Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment, looking out of the window, unable to meet her eyes. Unable to breathe normally because there was something hot and beautiful in his chest, which was growing bigger and bigger, making his thoughts spin and the blood buzz headily in his ears. He swallowed. Then, forcing words out of his dry mouth he asked, suspiciously and with a hint of begging in his voice:

"No romantic dinners, then?"

"No, if one doesn't want to."

"And no presents and roses?"

"I myself never cared about presents, but I do like white roses," she smiled.

"And rings and... _marriage_?"

"Dear God, are we living on the 21st century or not?" Angel snorted, amused. "We can surely enough stay in our own flats and keep going like we did before. Having a life of our own and another life together. And I hate rings and jewels of any kind, if you really want to know. Look, Sherlock. For me love is something like John said before: 'to poke my nose into every stinking bin, bounce along the city in the middle of the night and behave myself like some bulletproof robot'. With _you_."

She looked at him, steadily, but the light smile on her lips was insecure, as if she had been fearful of the reception her brave outpouring might get.

Sherlock turned his head to meet her eyes. The bright blue was intense, almost violent. It was huge and deep and endless. It was no longer a pair of eyes, but a whole world of unexamined wonders and secrets and unpredictable reefs under the surging waves. And all he wanted to do was to sink into it. The compelling craving to let go, to surrender, at last, almost smothered him. His hand moved closer and then stopped. He held his breath. How huge were the waves, although the sky was bright blue and the wind mild and tender...

She touched his hand and then he smelled it, the salt. And he saw, through her eyes, across the immense sea into the horizon, where huge, gray masses of dolorous clouds poured down. Where tears poured down, continuously. Something cold ran down his spine, blending oddly with the warmness inside him. He quivered when the blue sky darkened. He saw how the waves became higher and higher and finally spilled over. He tasted the salt in his mouth and felt the drops on his cheeks. Vaguely, a part of his brain wondered how the rain was able to penetrate through the cab's roof, but what did it all matter, in the end? The rain would water everything, anyway. It would finally drown them both.

Afterwards he wasn't able to figure out how it happened but, at the time, all he could think of was her body in his arms, in his embrace. Light like a breeze, fragrant but so, so cold. And he felt in his heart that he _had_ to make her warm, somehow, before it was too late.

He cried, silently, into her marvellous golden crown of hair. Every tear bit his soul like someone had trickled salty water in an open wound. And not until now did he understand, that he, himself, was also broken inside. Not only in her world were those gray, endless clouds and that continuous, sorrowful rain of tears. He had them too, inside him. And suddenly he knew what it would be like, to drown under that rain. Only he wasn't sure if he was able to fight his way back up to the surface, anymore. Or if he even wanted to, because, to drown together with her was a thought so alluring and beautiful that nothing seemed to matter beside it.


End file.
